


It Is Not Yet Evening

by NextFewWords



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Historical, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Historical, Pre revolutionary Russia, Russia 1917, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, no really, period au, the slowest of slow burns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 18:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11296464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NextFewWords/pseuds/NextFewWords
Summary: Historical AU.It is 1917, and with the Russian empire on the verge of collapse, Emma -  a former maid for the Imperial family - means to escape the imminent revolution and start a new life in London. Desperately fleeing the Bolsheviks and armed with fake documents and a new identity, she sets out to find the mysterious man with the power to grant her her freedom. But the road to Moscow is a treacherous one, and a chance encounter with a wealthy British businessman may change her life forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by the brilliant @Miss-Emma-Swan-Jones

 

* * *

 

 

_Alexander Palace; March 14th, 1917. 10:04am._

 

“Are you nearly ready, devotchka?”

 

“Nearly.”

 

Emma picked up her pace, rolling the last remaining shirts and dresses into tight balls before gracelessly cramming them into the overstuffed bag. She could only hope that they wouldn’t be too crumpled and distressed when it came time to unpack them. It would be a long journey, so the chances of that were slim. She sighed and looked around the room.

 

In her rush, she had left many of the drawers and closet doors propped open, a handful of heavier clothing that she would have to leave behind piled in a heap on the floor. Granny had reassured her that she would take care of it after she had left, but Emma still felt guilty at leaving a mess.

 

She picked through the leftovers one last time before settling on her warmest shawl and a modest sized hat. She had originally picked out the wide-brimmed, flat-topped hat that her mother had sent her for her birthday a few years earlier, but had had to reluctantly swap it out for a snug fitting winter one instead. It would be a struggle to carry one of the more extravagant ones, she reasoned, and besides, she wasn’t meant to stand out. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her that she would have to buy all new clothes later anyways; after today she would no longer be in need of her maid’s uniform.

 

She stood in front of the tall mirror, turning and twirling to see the outfit from all angles. There was nothing too ostentatious about her high collared blouse and long dark skirt, which would hopefully dissuade beggars and thieves. With any luck, she could hide the pearl hairpins that were keeping her long blond hair up under her hat.

 

Granny appeared in the doorway then, waddling over to the small French mattress upon the gilded bed and seating herself amongst the mess of outerwear sprawled there. Her eyebrows raised as she took in the chaos around her.

 

“I thought you said that you were nearly finished!”

 

“I am, babuska. I am just deciding on the last few things.” Turning away from the mirror, Emma spread her arms out to her side. “What do you think?”

 

Granny bowed her head slightly, her glasses perched low on her nose, as she looked up at the young woman before her.

 

“I think you will be cold. The snowstorm has picked up again.”

 

Emma’s shoulders dropped. “But it will be warm in London, will it not? You said the weather there was much more agreeable than here.”

 

“That may be so, but a million things could go wrong between now and then and I will not have my best lady freeze to death on the streets.” She picked up a long fur-lined coat hanging from the grey partition that divided the room. “Take this.”

 

The younger woman relented, heaving the coat over her shoulders and fastening the large buttons. She was rewarded with a small smile of approval from her friend.

 

“Much better.”

 

She took one final glance in the mirror before moving to collect the last few things she would need for the train. Even with her back turned to her, Emma could sense Granny’s uneasy shuffling in her seat, her palms rubbing nervously over her simple black gown. She knew what the woman was going to say before she spoke.

 

“I want to go over the plan with you one more time.”

 

“Babushk-,” Emma began to protest, but the older woman cut her off.

 

“No, Emma, this is important.”

 

The elderly lady stood, handing her a large envelope. “These are your new papers and your new passport. They have all been changed to your new name and I have been assured that you should have no problems with them. However, you will still need to pass the security check.” She dug around in the envelope and pulled out a small card with a name scrawled hastily upon it. “You must look for this man. He is an Imperial soldier and will be able to help you.”    

 

“How will I know which one he is?”

 

“Don’t worry about that, my dear, he will find you.”

 

When Emma nodded her understanding, Granny continued, flipping the card over to reveal a new set of names and addresses. “When you arrive in Moscow, you must go to this man on the written time and date. By then he should be waiting with everything you need.”

 

“We hope.”

 

“Emma,” Granny sighed, “You know I would never put you in danger if I thought there was another way. The English king is a reasonable man. We must have faith that he will come to his cousin’s aid.”

 

“Of course, babuska.” She tried not to let her skepticism show on her face. The Tsar had only made the request for asylum a few days prior and there was still no word on whether it would be granted. The Bolsheviks were becoming restless and brave, and many feared that the Tsar’s trip to Stavka would not be enough to keep their soldiers from resorting to mutiny. In his absence, the few reserves the Tsar had commissioned to guard the palace had already begun to desert, leaving the family woefully unprotected. The entire palace staff had been on edge since the attack on Petrograd and it had only been the Tsarina’s reassurance that they too would be granted asylum under the request that had finally settled the anxious whispers. Still, the possibility remained that their pleas for rescue would fall on deaf ears and that they would be left to be taken by the revolutionists.

 

She shuddered at the thought of travelling the long journey to Moscow only to find that her invitation to Britain had been denied. There would be nothing for her to do, nowhere to go, if that were to happen. She had to swallow down her nerves.

 

Emma took a long look at the woman who had become like family to her over the years. She tried for a moment to remember what it had been like all those years ago when she had first arrived at the palace, but she could not imagine the portly English woman with anything other than the tight grey curls and crows feet eyes she had now. She had learned so much, seen so much, during her time as a maid for the Imperial family. It felt as if she was leaving a piece of herself behind, leaving now.

 

“Are you sure you cannot come with me?”

 

Granny placed her weathered hands on either side of the blond’s face. “I must stay with the family, my dear. I have been in their service for many many years now. This is my home as much as it is theirs.”

 

“Perhaps I could wait a bit longer-”

 

“Now, now. You know you must leave today. The Bolsheviks could overtake us any day now, and it would be best for you to be far away when that happens. Those papers will not protect you for very long. I have no doubt that you would be in great danger if your association with the palace were to be discovered before then.”

 

The woman’s word of caution only furthered Emma’s worries. “But you will be in just as much danger if you stay!”

 

“Yes, devotchka, but I must remain. The Tsar returns in a few days.” She forced a small smile, “It would not do for the Tsar to return to an unkept palace, now would it?”

 

Emma only looked down, eyes misty. Granny gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before reaching over to close up the travelling bag.

 

“Now, no more fussing. You will miss your train if you do not leave now.”

 

With a final look behind her, Emma closed the door to her room and followed the maid out of the room and down the hallway. At the sound of footsteps, Ingrid, the Tsarina’s second chief maid, poked her head out from her bedchamber.

 

“Oh, are you leaving already?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” Emma answered politely, averting her gaze.

 

The Baltic woman tilted her head, her pale blue eyes studying the younger maid as if she were trying to find one final flaw to pick out before her departure. “We wish you well, I suppose,” she stated indifferently, her voice high and musical.  

 

Emma nodded, trying not to shuffle under the scrutiny. Thankfully, Granny intervened.

 

“Your ribbon is lopsided, Ingrid. You would do well to fix that before her majesty sees you.”

 

Ingrid shot the English woman a glare, her lips crumpling into a tight pout, before she turned sharply on her heels and returned to her room.

 

Granny rolled her eyes and led Emma by the elbow down the rest of the hallway.  “Miserable hag,” she heard the elderly woman mutter, her voice full of disdain. Emma only hoped that they wouldn’t tear each other apart in her absence, although, even as Granny’s assistant, Emma had never been able to ease the tension between them.

 

They paused briefly outside the doors of the children’s rooms, listening for any indication that the occupants might be awake, but there was none. All but one of the Imperial children had fallen ill with measles not a week ago and had been confined to their beds. The Tsarina had become increasingly anxious over the children’s health and had donned a set of nurse aprons to see to their recovery herself. Then again, that had always been her majesty’s way; even when one of her own maids were sick, the empress was adamant about tending to their sore throats and fevers.

 

Fortunately for Emma, the five children had been well enough to receive her the day before and she had been able to give them each a swift peck on the cheek and a sweetie for when they were feeling better again. The Tsarina had been as gracious as ever in her goodbyes, offering a sizeable amount of rubles in addition to her final pay. She had left her employer with a small curtsy and a multitude of thanks pouring from her lips, though the elegant woman had simply waved off the praise.  

 

The two maids walked the long hallways of the palace, the young blond taking her time as she committed the last images of her home to memory. The halls were quieter than usual, with what little staff remained having been designated as nursemaids to help with the children.

 

They descended the short staircase to the main floor and stepped out into the large, semi-circular room that occupied a large portion of the back of the palace. The morning sun shone brightly through the tall windows that overlooked the vast back garden. Granny had been right; the snow outside had only gotten deeper over the night, and the fresh blanket of snow only served to amplify the sun’s rays as they passed through the crystal chandeliers that hung heavily from the ceiling, the reflected light sparkling against the white walls.

 

The palace curator, Belle, would likely be a wreck when she saw it. Every morning, the serving staff would go through the interconnected rooms and throw open the long curtains, insisting that the Imperial family should enjoy the beautiful scenery as they made their way down to their small breakfast room. The petite French woman had begrudgingly agreed, however the moment that the Tsar and his family had finished their morning meals, she would race down and snatch the curtains closed once more, all the while muttering about the effects that the harsh sun would have on the beautiful portraits and tapestries.

 

But looking up at the mammoth painting of Tsar Nicholas I, strong and brave as he lead his generals into battle, Emma couldn’t help but think it would take more than sunlight to bring down such a monumental piece.

 

The beauty was only slightly tainted by the faint smell of smoke that hung in the air. Emma had heard whispers that the Tsarina had begun burning private documents and letters, lest they fall into the wrong hands should they be captured. She may not have been a mother herself, but Emma felt nothing but sadness and grief for the woman. The days seemed to be growing darker for the family and she only prayed that the rulers were granted a miracle soon.

 

Just as Emma was entering the small library that led to the entrance of the palace, a flash of movement in her periphery caught her eye.

 

“Ruby!”

 

The tall brunette turned on her heels at the appell, her face lighting up as she saw Emma coming toward her. “Well look who is sneaking out of the palace while the rest of us are hard at work,” she joked, nodding down at the silver tray balanced in her hands.   

 

Emma rolled her eyes playfully. “Oh, are we pretending that I have never caught you sneaking off in the palace?” Then, in a hushed tone, “Perhaps to meet a certain someone whose charge is a young Tsarevich?”

 

Ruby pretended to look affronted, eyes snapping briefly to where the head maid was lingering in the doorway. The elderly woman was making no attempt to appear as if she wasn’t eavesdropping. “What ever could you mean?”

 

The younger maid shook her head, grinning as she placed her bag down at her feet to draw her friend into a hug. The two maids had spent years as each other's’ confidants in the large palace, trading secrets and gossip like sisters. Emma was suddenly struck by the loneliness that awaited her and she clutched her friend a little closer.

 

“A second round of goodbyes? I _must_ be special,” the dark haired beauty laughed, carefully maneuvering the tray on to the small circular table in the middle of the room.  

 

Emma, pulled away, ignoring her friend’s teasing. “Where are you off to? I thought you were with the children.”

 

“I was, but the Tsarina asked if I might bring her some tea.”

 

“Of course.” Emma could hardly focus, her heart aching at leaving another person so dear to her. “I will miss you.”

 

“And I you. Perhaps when all of this is over, the Tsarina will allow me leave to come visit you.”

 

Emma smiled, pushing back the nagging feeling that this could be the last time she would see her friend. “That would be wonderful.”

 

Just at that moment a bell rang from above, signalling that the brunette was needed.

 

“Do not forget to write often,” Ruby warned sternly, “or else I will be forced to hunt you down myself.”

 

“I would not dare, red wolf.”

 

Her friend snorted at the nickname but Emma saw through it. Another quick kiss to the cheek and Ruby was gone, her long legs carrying her down the hall toward the staircase.

 

The two ladies slipped through the main doors and began making their way down the long steps that led to the driveway. A small group of palace guards were lounging at the top of the steps, their hands filled with playing cards and hand rolled cigarettes. All decorum had vanished the moment the Tsar had left the grounds, it seemed, and the young men had begun taking more and more liberties with their posts. The oldest of the group couldn't have been more than twenty five, but their faces were rough and war worn. They had been pulled from starvation on the front lines to play protector for the family that had sent them there in the first place. The Imperial family had tried to be kind to their returned soldiers, if only to dispel their thoughts of desertion, but the recent nights of full bellies and fresh linens could not erase the many nights of hunger and unrest on the battlefield.

 

A roar of laughter broke out from the men as one of their comrades scowled, throwing down his losing hand and taking a deeper drag of dark smoke. The women bowed their heads courteously as they passed but the guards took no notice. The long, outstretched arms of the heavy bronze figures that flanked the bottom of the stairs seemed to reach out to Emma, begging her not to go. Or perhaps they were simply attempting to flee as well.

 

The car that the head maid had ordered for her was already waiting in the large roundabout at the foot of the steps. A skinny man in an oversized jacket was leaning against the hood of the car, rubbing his gloves hands together in an effort to fight away the bitter cold, but he jumped up immediately as he saw the two ladies approaching. He scurried over and kindly took the heavy bag from Emma’s hands, nodding politely at them both before hurrying back to where the car was still puttering. The man was likely apprehensive about leaving the car stalling for too long, lest its poor engine give out from the cold.

 

Hands now empty, Emma turned to face her friend. She had had a mess of wonderful words lined up in her mind, a list of thanks that expressed everything that the past thirteen years had meant for her. But faced with the finality of her departure, none of them seemed enough.

 

“Thank you, babuska. For everything,” she choked out, her throat feeling tight.  

 

The English lady sniffed once, attempting to hold back tears. “Of course, lovie. You were the best assistant I could ever ask for.” She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Emma’s slender shoulders.

 

Emma returned the tender hug, squeezing tight as her dearest friend pressed one last loving kiss into her hair. She couldn’t stop the tears pooling in her eyes.

 

“Proschaite, babushka. ”

 

“Proschaite. Be safe, Emma Lebedeva.”

 

It was only later, as she boarded the train that was destined to whisk her away from everything she knew, that she found the gilded pocket knife that her friend had slipped into her coat pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Devotchka = Girl (often used as an affectionate form of address to a young woman)
> 
> Babuska = Grandmother
> 
> Proschaite = Farewell


	2. Chapter 2

_Petrograd; March 14th, 1917. 11:35am_

 

The train ride to Petrograd was short, too short to nap. Not that Emma would have been able to sleep anyhow; everywhere she looked she was reminded of the life she was leaving behind. The grand station, the first in Russia, had stood tall and proud behind her as she had pulled away from the platform.

 

Instead, she had found herself daydreaming about the new life that awaited her. Well, the _possibility_ of a new life, at least. Nothing was ever for certain, especially given her circumstances. But that did not stop her from hoping, and her thoughts were soon preoccupied by visions of narrow cobblestone streets and tall bell towers. Would the Thames resemble the long Moscow river? Would she find the same flowers that the Tsarina loved so much growing in the gardens of Buckingham palace?

 

The idea made her thoughts turn to the British royal family. She had to admit she had been surprised when the Tsar had brought home a picture he had taken with his cousin during their trip to Berlin for the wedding of the Kaiser’s daughter. The two men were spitting images of each other, standing bold and regal in German military uniforms, beards trimmed to perfection and hawkish eyes fixed toward the camera. The Tsarina had joked that the men could be brothers, though the former Prince of Wales was just as much her cousin as he was her husband’s.

 

Emma thought it a pity that the monarchs could never experience the joys of family the way that the common man did, with the burden of alliances and best interests often trumping familial ties. Blood was not always thicker than water, it seemed.

 

She arrived at Vitebsky station in the heart of Petrograd making good time, the sun not quite at its highest in the sky. Moskovsky station was a far walk, but Emma decided to cross the city on foot. It was a risk - carrying her sole possessions through the heart of Petrograd where any thief or pickpocket could easily mark her - but she weighed it against the risk of losing more money on transportation and decided to forgo the car.

 

Trudging through the snowy streets, Emma couldn’t help but notice the change in the city. She had never seen the capital with such a high military presence; every corner seemed to have men with rifles standing guard. It was unnerving, to say the least. The former maid picked up her pace as she passed rows of looted bakeries, their contents spilled out in the street from where desperate beggars had stampeded their way in for the last remaining scraps of bread.

 

Eventually she came to the large train station. She had never seen it from the street before, her few trips by train having been when she had accompanied the Imperial family, who had a designated wing all to themselves. Seeing it now, Emma could not help but be amazed at the architecture. The building itself dominated the entire block, a colossal show of power and innovation that had proved to be the lifeblood of western Russia. Every day, tons of cargo left for the various cities dotting the way to Moscow, carrying everything from fuel to fodder. Most of the containers were destined for the front lines where the need was highest, leaving whatever little was left for the small cities to divvy up amongst themselves. The mad scramble for the scarce resources had resulted in bloodshed on more than one occasion, though Emma had never seen the Tsar be particularly concerned with that fact. He seemed to be certain that it would all blow over eventually, though Emma struggled to see the source of his optimism.  

 

Emma hurried into the building, shaking the dusting of snow that had gathered on her coat and hat. Granny had been right about the weather; she would have frozen in her lighter clothes. Pulling out the small card that Granny had given her, she read the name over in her head. Even with the reassurance that the man would be the one to find her, Emma was still on edge. She hadn’t thought to ask how her contact was meant to recognize her, and with the station was bustling with people, it would be easy enough to become lost within the sea of faces.

 

Stopping in the centre of the hall, she examined the people around her. If the outside of the building had been grandiose, the inside was doubly so. Enormous chandeliers hung overhead - their intricacies second only to those of the Imperial palace, Emma thought - their electric lights illuminating the exquisite painted scenes on the high ceiling. Hundreds of people were packed in the spacious hall, the room unusually warm despite the chill outside. There were a few Imperial soldiers scattered throughout the hall, but all were paired up and making idle chit chat with one another. None appeared to be waiting to have a secret rendez vous with a former palace maid.

A thousand different scenarios began whirling around in her mind. Perhaps he had simply forgotten? Or had misunderstood her friend’s letter, and had mistaken the date or the time of her departure? A common enough error and entirely plausible.

 

All of that went right out the window, however, if her contact had been detained. A man willing to break the rules once would surely have done so before. All it would take was a misplaced letter, an intercepted note, and it would all be for naught. Her stomach formed in knots at the thought. She couldn’t help imagining a swarm of Red soldiers surrounding her, dragging her away to heavens knows where to do God know’s what. Whatever it was would surely be horrible, and there would be little anyone could do to help her. Nevermind ‘Emma Nolana’; her entire identity would cease to exist. She would be snuffed from existence as easily as snuffing out the flame of a candle.

 “Izvineeti...”

 

Emma started at the voice and spun around to find a young man standing before her. His arm was half extended as if he were about to tap her shoulder but he retracted it quickly at her jumpy response.

 

“My apologies. I did not mean to frighten you,” the man continued hesitantly. “Are you Emma Nolana?”

 

Emma let out a sigh of relief at the sound of her alias, the knot in her stomach lessening.

 

“Yes, I am. You must be August.”

 

He gave a small smile and his eyes cheerful and friendly. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

 

The man in front of her was dressed as all Imperial soldiers were; his asymmetric jacket buttoned high to the collar and a matching green cap tucked neatly in the crook of his arm. Despite his stiff uniform, his light eyes and dimpled cheeks softened his look considerably and  highlighted a distinctly friendly face. From all appearance he seemed to be the man - the _soldier_ \- her friend had commissioned for her, but she needed to be sure.

 

“Forgive me, but how did you recognize me?”

 

The man blushed at the question, his hand slipping into his breast pocket. “The matron Lucas gave me a photograph,“ he explained, retrieving a small folded picture and handing it over to her to examine. He seemed to consider his next thoughts before he spoke. “I must admit that it does not capture your entire beauty.”

 

Emma looked up, searching the soldier’s face for any sign of malice, but there was none. By the way the man had immediately become flustered at his own forwardness, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing away, it was clear to her that it had been a harmless attempt at flattery. Though it was certainly not the first time she had received such advances, Emma couldn't help but find it endearing.

 

“Then I will endeavour to ask that my friend to provide you a better one next time,” she joked lightly, enjoying the smile that spread across his still flushed cheeks. She handed the photograph back. “What precisely did Madam Lucas tell you about my predicament?”

 

“Not much,” he admitted, “Simply that you are in need of my, well, my _assistance_ , and that it is of paramount that you arrive in Moscow safely.” There was a pause, during which the soldier seemed to wrestle with something internally, shifting his weight between his feet. “I will have you know that, as a rule, I do not enjoy secrecy. Particularly when it is I who is left in the dark.”

 

Emma swallowed hard at the sternness in his voice, but maintained her outwardly calm facade. Perhaps August wasn’t the saviour Granny had made him out to be after all _,_ she thought regretfully. He was wavering, seeming as though he was on the verge of trusting her. He was simply waiting for her to make a move to tip the balance in her favour. She could only pray that she could; she could not afford for him to back out now.     

 

Mustering up every ounce of diplomacy she had, she broke the silence.

 

“I understand your fear and your hesitancy in helping me, much as how you surely understand my own fear and hesitancy in disclosing such information to you. You must believe me when I say that you will be better off not knowing the details of our arrangement. I cannot give you much, but I give you my word that I will not abuse your trust in me. If that is not enough for you, you should say so now.”

 

There was another pause, shorter this time, and Emma watched as his eyes flickered over her face, searching for something. Whatever he found in her expression made him relax, his shoulders dropping as a decision in his mind seemed to click into place.

 

“Madam Lucas has always been kind to my family. I trust her, and if she is going through all of this trouble to help you, then perhaps I should trust you as well.”

 

There was nothing but resolve in the look that he was giving her now, his lingering uncertainty overruled by the desire to do right by his friend. With the cloud of doubt dissipating, Emma could see why Granny had entrusted her safety with him; he was a good man and a solid ally.

 

“Thank you, August.” It was at that moment that she noticed the clock mounted on the station wall over his shoulder. She started at the time; she had less than forty five minutes until the ticket office closed. “Shall we get started, then? I am afraid I am in a bit of a hurry at the moment.”

 

“Of course. Follow me, if you please.”

 

He led her to a counter with a sign reading ‘Document Inspection’ in bold lettering. A small mass of people were collected around the counter, each waiting for the officer behind the counter to call them forward. August stopped her a few feet from the group, turning to block her path.

 

“Wait here until I call on you” he murmured, before stepping back and gesturing for her to take a seat on the bench. He walked away then, his back straight and steps even; a proper soldier once more. Emma watched as he slipped behind the counter, a friendly grin plastered across his face as he clapped the shoulder of the on duty officer there. August said something that she could not hear, but the seated man looked relieved at his words, standing up quickly and making a show of stretching his back. There was a quick back and forth of conversation before the exhausted man, having been relieved of his post, hurried away to a room in the back.  

 

August immediately sat down, calling forward an elderly couple with a quick ‘ _posleh_ ’. Emma waited, passport and bag in hand, as the officer took down the information of each traveller, pausing only occasionally to ask questions. Each person left the booth with a freshly stamped set of documents and a quick directive to present themselves at the ticket box.

 

Even with the assurance of August on her side, Emma couldn’t help but worry. So much could still go wrong; the wrong person asking all the wrong questions could cause her charade to crumble in an instant. The Bolsheviks had riled the population into a frenzy, promising a new life free of starvation and hardship. The recent years had not been kind to the people of Russia, and like all starved and wounded creatures, the people were calling for blood. It would not matter that she had simply been a maid, that she was an unmarried woman who had done little more than spend the past decade of her life as a caregiver to impossibly wealthy children. Her loyalty as a faithful servant to the Imperial family was clear, and for that she would be condemned a traitor to the people. The Bolsheviks would surely squeeze every ounce of compliance out of her, would demand to know every little secret that she was privy to, while the rest of the country would want nothing more than to watch her pay for the misfortune that she had so easily escaped. And now it would not just be her own life at risk; as an accomplice, August would not likely be spared the swift and harsh punishment that she would surely receive.

 

Emma was so lost in her worries that she almost missed August’s call of _‘posleh’_ , her head snapping up to see him watching her from behind the booth. Still clutching tightly to her possessions, she stood and made her way to the counter. August’s face filled with concern as she approached.   

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yes,” she answered, trying to shake off the sense of foreboding that was trying to consume her. “I am just tired.”

 

August gave her an understanding smile as he began shuffling through the papers on his desk.

 

“I will need to see your passport.”

 

She handed over the document and waited as he immediately flipped to a new page in the registry book and began scribbling down her information.

 

“Now, Emma Nolana, I will need you to answer a few questions for me.”  She nodded her assent and he continued. “Where are you going?”

 

“To Moscow.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“Two weeks.” He nodded, jotting down the lie.

 

“And what business do you have there?”

 

“I am going to visit my friend. She is... very ill.”   

 

August’s brow creased in mock concern, his eyes betraying his amusement at her fabricated story. It would appear she needed to work on her acting. “Ill? How so?”

 

“She has come down with a rather unfortunate case of the flu.”

 

“What a pity!”

 

“It is quite tragic, yes,” she replied, fighting to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. “But I have high hopes that she will recover soon.”  

 

“I have no doubt that your soothing presence will do much to raise her spirits.”  

 

“How very kind of you to say.”

 

He made another note, moving on to the next question. “Are you travelling alone?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Your husband will not be joining you?” The questions was standard enough, but Emma couldn’t help but wonder if the soldier was asking to satisfy his own curiosity as well.

 

“I am unmarried.”

 

“My apologies. I did not mean to assume.” The relief in his voice was palpable, leaving Emma to assume she was correct about his curiosities. Any lingering doubt on the matter was immediately put to rest by the subtle hint of flirtation in his next words. “But Moscow is a beautiful city, with much to offer with regards to romance, I hear. Perhaps fortune will smile upon you.”

 

“What a shame I will not be able to see it all then, what with my friend’s health being as it is,” she replied cheekily as a grin finally broke free on both of their faces.

 

“Of course. Perhaps next time, then.”

 

He asked only a few more questions, his comical overacting at her responses making her feel more at ease by the minute. When the final note was taken, he stamped her passport confirming that there were “no hindrances to departing by train”.  

 

“You are clear to travel to Moscow, Emma Nolana,” he announced cheerfully, handing back her documents. “You may go on to the ticket counter to purchase your tickets now.” Then, in a lower voice, he added, “Then you must wait for me under the chandelier to the right of the doors. I will be with you shortly.”

 

Emma nodded curtly, collecting her belongings and walking to the ticket booth. The bored woman at the booth barely gave her a second glance as she checked the fresh ink on her passport. Satisfied, she slipped a single ticket across the counter as Emma laid out the money for her. The cost of a single fare was expensive and Emma had to wonder how she would have been able to afford it if not for her employer’s generous wages. As it was she had opted for a third class ticket, conscious of the fact that she would need to save every ruble she had if she was going to make it to London.

 

She sat on a long bench underneath the chandelier and she waited. August’s questions had been benign enough, but she knew that she had come off as too stiff in her answers. She would need to practice.

 

Pulling out the papers, she read through the details of her new identity. _Emma Davidovna Nolana_. She smiled at the name. Even though everything about her life was about to change - to be turned completely upside down, really - at least she would be allowed to keep one small truth about herself, even if it was only a partial truth.

 

As they had kept her first name, her name day remained the same, though the year had changed. It now stated that she was twenty four rather than her true twenty seven, which Emma hoped was not too much of a reach. She had always been the youngest of the Tsarina’s staff, and as the ladies were forbidden to marry, Emma had become the pseudo daughter of some of her more matronly coworkers.

 

The occupation section stated that she was a private tutor, a fact that suited Emma just fine. She had watched Graham tutor the young Tsarevich, Alexei, for years, and she was certain she would be able to emulate him.

 

It was at that moment that August’s tall leather boots entered her field of vision. She raised her head and watched the man attempt to look casual as he surveyed the crowd around him, searching. There was a brief flash of relief on his face when he finally spotted her.  

 

“Did you purchase your tickets?” He asked when he reached where she was seated.

 

“I did. Thank you for all of your help, August.”

 

“It has been a privilege. I am only sorry that I cannot accompany you further.” He frowned, concern filling his blue eyes. He appeared to be weighing his options, hurriedly trying to find a way to stay with her without abandoning his post. It was a sweet thought, but Emma knew that it could never happen. Travelling alone was risky, true enough, but travelling with a deserter was exponentially worse.  

 

“If only you could,” she replied, smiling kindly. “I imagine you would be great company. But you needn’t worry, I can manage just fine on my own.”

 

“Even so, it would ease my mind to know that you are safe.”

 

Pulling out a pen and a slip of paper from his pocket, he began scribbling down a set of directions to an address. “My father lives in Moscow. He is a woodworker there. If you need anything, please promise me that you will not hesitate to ask him.”

 

Emma accepted the paper gratefully. “I promise.”

 

August seemed to relax slightly at her reassurance. He gave her a few more instructions on where to wait for the train and when to board, explaining that it was strictly forbidden to be on the platform before the station bell sounded. Emma listened carefully, committing each rule to memory. It soon became clear to Emma, however, that the soldier was quite willing to spend the entire afternoon discussing station protocol with her if it meant being in her company a little while longer, and though Emma was flattered, she knew that to neglect his post for much longer would only lead to unfortunate consequences.

 

So when he paused for a breath between his listing of station hand signals and the tale of his personal history with the station manager, Emma took the opportunity to interrupt. He flushed scarlet as she placed a small kiss to his cheek and thanked him again for his help. Seeming to recognize the polite dismissal, he bowed his head in a short nod. He looked about ready to turn away when something occurred to him and he turned back.

 

“May I ask you one last question?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Nolana. Nolan is a British name.”  

 

Emma knew the question that was sure to follow, but waited patiently for the soldier to ask it.

 

“Is it your own?”

 

Emma’s polite smile returned to her face. “No.”  

 

He seemed to pause a moment, his eyes searching hers as he waited for her to continue. There was a hint of disappointment in his face when she remained silent, but as any true gentleman, he did not push the matter. Bidding her one last farewell, Emma watched as the uniformed man disappeared into the crowd.

 

It was still twenty minutes before her train was to depart, but as the ticket office closed ten minutes prior, Emma found herself being jostled by last minute stragglers as they hurried to the booths. An elbow to the ribs from a stout older lady dragging a young child behind her nearly toppled the ex-maid, but she righted herself in time.

 

Unsure of what to do and eager to avoid being tossed around in the sea of people a moment longer, Emma made her way back to the row of benches at the far wall. Her previous seat had long been taken, but she managed to squeeze into a spot between a white haired octogenarian man and a young lady with a toddler in her lap. The small child looked up in fascination as Emma sat, watery eyes wide and curious. Emma rumpled her nose and made a face that she had used to make the young Tsarevich laugh when he was young. She had always had a gift with children, perhaps because she had been assigned to care for one during her own youth. Sure enough, the little one let out a sharp squeal of delight and began burrowing into this mother, who let out a pained ‘oomph’ as the chubby, squirming limbs clumsily dug into her torso.

 

Knowing the young mother would hardly appreciate her toddler becoming wound up more than he was, Emma sat back and rested her head on the wall behind her. With Granny, Ruby, and even August gone now, it was finally beginning to sink in how alone she was going to be. It could be days before she saw another friendly face, and likely much longer still before she would see someone from her old life. It was exhausting to think about, and she barely made any effort to resist when her eyes began to feel heavy and fluttered closed on their own accord.

 

The general hustle and bustle of the station was soothing, the sound of hard leather soles pattering across the oak parquet floor echoing in the large hall. The continuous opening and closing of the large station doors was not enough to dissipate the smell of cigarette smoke that hung in the air, but Emma had long since learned to ignore the scent. Occasionally the elderly man beside her would begin wheezing into his handkerchief before muttering under his breath about the weather, but even that began to fade.

 

Just as she was about to give in and fall asleep right there on the hard station bench, a man’s voice rang out.  

 

“No, no - you see? I am looking for the _platform_. It says here…”

 

The clear English accent came as a surprise to Emma, but not nearly as much as the sight of the speaker himself did. He was young, maybe a few years older than herself, and handsome - even from across the hall and with his features crumpled in confusion, she could see that. He was dressed to perfection, his leather shoes freshly polished despite the snow and grit outside and not a hair out of place. A businessman, perhaps? _Yes, almost certainly_ , she thought, eyeing the satchel that hung from his shoulder. No one would be traveling so far, dressed so nicely, and carrying so little.

 

Emma was particularly observant anyhow given her years of working in the palace, but it would not have taken much to notice the man’s clear distress or the source of the problem. The man had obviously attempted to gain access to the platform before the bell and had been stopped by the attendant. An easy mistake, to be sure, but judging by the look of frustration and annoyance on the officer’s face, the situation seemed to be escalating. Out of the corner of her eye, Emma could see two station guards watching the confrontation closely, ready to intervene at the slightest indication from the attendant.

 

Everyone in the station was beginning to take notice now, the awaiting passengers stopping to whisper to each other, their heads craning to catch a glimpse of the commotion. Wealthier women in hats far larger than Emma’s were leaning into their husband’s arms as they gossiped into their ears, batting delicate fans to cool themselves in the crowded space. The only person who seemed oblivious to the scene was the British man himself, who was still attempting to explain in desperate English his intention, pointing repeatedly at the ticket in his hand. Still, no one came to the poor man’s aid.

 

Without a second thought, and just as the uniformed soldiers began making their way through the thick crowd, Emma rose from her seat on the bench.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Izvineeti: Excuse me 
> 
> Posleh: Next


	3. Chapter 3

_Petrograd; March 14th, 1917. 7:46am._

 

Bloody hell, he was going to be late.

 

In his haste, he had not had time to properly dress and the circular buttons of his vest were digging in uncomfortably where he had fastened them wrong. The melting snow on his boots were no help either, and he found himself struggling to maintain his grip on the slick ground. He tried to push his discomfort to the back of his mind as he raced up the last few steps of the apartment building, reaching the door to his friend’s apartment in a few long strides.

 

He was out of breath by the time Jefferson opened the door.

 

“Well, well,” tutted the tall man as he took in his friend’s unkempt appearance, “someone appears to have spent the night on the river bank. Long night, Jones?”

 

“You are nearly right, it was Smee’s floor,” he admitted. “Trust a sailor to have a stash of rum during a prohibition.”

 

“Well you had better be sober enough for breakfast. You would not want to disappoint your biggest admirer.”

 

As if on cue, the rumbling of small, bare feet sounded down the hallway, accompanied by the shrill shriek of “Uncle Killian!” The dark haired man had barely enough time to crouch down before the little girl bounded into his arms. The squeals of laughter only grew louder as Killian stood and swung her around in a quick circle.

 

“And how is my favourite little niece?”

 

The child giggled in response to his tickles. He placed a quick kiss to her soft strawberry blond curls before setting her gently on her feet.

 

“Did you bring me another present? Can I see it?” She was practically vibrating where she stood.

 

“ _Grace_ ,” her father warned sternly as he finished relocking the front door.   

 

A small blush crept over the young girl’s cheeks. “ _Please_ , Uncle Killian?”

 

Killian, for his part, made a show out of letting out a defeated sigh. “Oh, very well then!”

 

He moved to pick up his satchel from where he had dropped it by the door. He hadn’t had time to wrap the present in anything more than a simple handkerchief, but the little girl’s eyes went wide with excitement as she took in the parcel. With the speed and fragility of any six year old, she unwrapped the soft linen and let the cloth fall to the floor.

 

“A teddy bear!” Grace gasped, holding the plush toy delicately in both hands as if it had suddenly become her most prized possession. “Oh, it is perfect! He can be best friends with Lucille!”  

 

Before he knew it, Killian was enveloped in another tight hug, this time with a toy bear crushed between them.  

 

“Papa, may I play in my room? Just until breakfast is ready?”

 

“Off you go,” her father sighed. The little girl was out of the room before he had finished his sentence. “What do you say?” He called out, just as her head turned the corner and disappeared into the bedroom. A muffled ‘thank you’ echoed through the wall in response.

 

Turning to his guest, he raised a brow. “If you are not careful, you will end up spoiling her rotten.”

 

“Who better to spoil her than her Uncle Killian?” He teased, shucking off his coat and moving to hang it in the hall cupboard.

 

“She already carries around the last toy you bought her everywhere she goes. Day in and day out, it is ‘Lucille’ this and ‘Lucille’ that. It is nearly enough to drive you mad.”

 

Killian smiled to himself, pleased that his gifts were being well received. “Well I must admit that this one was a mite bit harder to track down. It seems that no one is overly enthusiastic about the idea of selling German made toys anymore.”

 

“Nothing is spared in war,” his friend muttered as they moved into the small kitchen. From the look of the mess of ingredients splayed across the counter, he had been in the middle of cooking when his friend had arrived. Killian leaned against the counter and readjusted his buttons as the host picked up a half-filled mixing bowl.

 

“Indeed not.” Killian paused, trying to find a way to broach the sensitive topic. “Have you heard anything in that regard?”

 

“Not yet. As far as I can tell, the bill extends only to the conscription of single or married men and childless widowers, but if the enlistment numbers remain as low as they are, that may soon change.”

 

Jefferson’s shoulders stiffened as he cracked an egg over a small bowl. He wasn’t necessarily aware of the extent of the hardships suffered by the citizens in the capital, but Killian had heard enough to know that eggs were a luxury that few could afford. The meal was clearly a reach for the small family, no doubt in honour of their guest’s arrival.

 

“We could arrange something, you know, if you had to go back to London. I could take Grace. It would be no trouble.”

 

His friend shook his head. “I honestly do not know what would happen if I were to be called away now. Gracie is in school - doing very well, I have been told. Her teachers have all said she is very bright. I could not take her away from that.”

 

“But with the way things are going here…” Killian trailed off, trying to be delicate with his words. “Some say a revolution is imminent.”

 

“I fear they are correct.”

 

“And if they are -”

 

“If they are, then what would be the difference? The city is run by mongrels as it is! At least the Bolsheviks claim to be on the side of the people. They are not the ones firing at innocent protesters and sending starving troops into wars we cannot possibly win! They are not the ones who have left us with barely enough food to put on the table for our children!”   

 

Jefferson’s voice had risen, a fact that seemed to settle on him as he turned his head sharply toward the small bedroom he shared with his daughter. No sound came from the other room and both men knew that the young child had likely stopped her play at the sound of her father’s distress. Seeming embarrassed at his outburst, the man bowed his head and returned his attention to preparing the food in front of him.

 

“I am sorry,” Killian said finally, his stomach feeling as though it was filled with lead. “You do know that you can ask me for anything, yes? You only need to say the word and it will be yours.”   

 

When his friend spoke again, his voice was much calmer, though the deep sadness lingered.

 

“Thank you, old friend.”

 

They finished preparing the meal in relative silence, only speaking occasionally to relay instructions to each other. When the small, circular table was finally set, Killian called for his niece to join them. She was in the room in a flash, giving her uncle caused to believe the clever girl had likely been listening at the door.

 

If his pre-meal conversation with Jefferson had been grim, Grace’s bubbly chatter throughout breakfast more than made up for it. It seemed her father had been correct in his assessment of her schooling, as the child recounted story after story of the many instances that she had received praise from her teachers. Killian nodded along politely, interjecting occasionally to congratulate her for hard work and to praise her for her cleverness. He could feel the tension begin to dissipate from Jefferson as well, as the father beamed with pride at the stories he had undoubtedly heard repeated many times before. If he sensed that some of the details of her tales seemed exaggerated, he didn’t let on. On more than one occasion, her father had to remind her to take bites of her food, but the little girl was too excited by her expanded audience to notice the bellinis growing cold on her plate. As it was, she would get no more than a few bites in before she was off recounting another great adventure.  

 

It was with great regret that Killian finally had to excuse himself. The train to Moscow would be departing in a little over two hours and he had yet to buy his ticket.       

 

Grace kept up a steady stream of giddy gossip as Killian slipped on his boots. It was only at the firm insistence of her father that she reluctantly bade him farewell with a final kiss to the cheek and retreated back into her room to finish her tea party.

 

“She looks just like her mother.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them, but it didn’t matter; the single father was still gazing at the doorway his daughter had just disappeared though.

 

“Yes, she does.”

 

Killian lingered, his mind still unsettled by their earlier conversation.

 

“I meant what I said before. If you need anything - anything at all - you need only ask. Promise me you will.” When his friend opened his mouth to protest, Killian continued. “If only for Grace’s sake.”

 

For a moment it seemed that the man was going to protest, but a look of understanding and resignation settled on his face and he simply nodded. The little girl was his entire world and he would never put his own pride over the safety of his daughter.

 

With a final farewell, Killian set off for the station.  

 

It was a chore acquiring a car for the short drive, made harder by his limited Russian vocabulary. He had not paid much attention to the way his companion had navigated the city upon their arrival a week ago and he mentally berated himself for it now as he fumbled his way through a conversation with his driver.

 

Between the long breakfast and initially being taken to the wrong train station due to his poor Russian - _how many bloody train stations did this city need?_ \- he was practically running when the car pulled up infront of Moskovsky station.

 

The station was busier than he had anticipated and he found himself dodging elbows to reach the ticket counter. The woman behind the counter barely looked up as she greeted him, which he returned with a heavy accent. Fortunately his associate had had the foresight to write a letter for him to present, outlining his request in Russian so as to avoid confusion. The lady accepted it, her eyes flickering to him briefly as she read his nationality. Without so much as another word, she collected the money Killian had laid out on the counter and slid a single ticket across the window.

 

According to his pocket watch, he had less than fifteen minutes until the train was to depart. It would be close timing, for sure.

 

He made it as far as the door that led to the platforms before he felt a hand reach out and snatch him back roughly. He hadn’t been expecting it, and the suddenness nearly toppled him.

 

“My apologies, I was only looking for the platform,” Killian said, pointing in the direction of the hallway. He made to turn away again, but the guard’s hand came out to stop him. The guard snapped at him, his Russian swift and gruff. The Englishman furrowed his brow in confusion.

 

“The platform? I am going to Moscow.”

 

Still nothing. Hoping to bring clarity to the situation, Killian brought out his ticket, holding it up for the guard to see.

 

“No, no - you see? I am looking for the _platform_. It says here ‘platforma 1’. Is that not the platform number?”

 

Once more he was met with a scowl and an order that he could not understand. The rough consonants in the words sounded menacing to his ears, likely due to the sharp glare that accompanied them.

 

Before he had a chance to speak, a soft, feminine voice interrupted him.

 

“He is saying that you need to remain here until the bell sounds.”

 

He turned to see a young woman, no more than thirty, standing with a bulky bag clutched in her hands. Her accent had been distinctly Russian, but her English was strong and confident.

 

“But I have a ticket already and the train is set to depart soon.”

 

He knew his tone was coming out sharper than he intended, but to her credit, her own voice remained patient. “I understand that, but I am afraid it is the station’s policy.” She looked pointedly off to the side and he followed her gaze to where more uniformed men were making their way over to him. “I would not argue it further,” she warned.

 

He pursed his lips, but kept his mouth shut. Though he was certain the guard spoke no English, Killian could tell by the smug look on his face that he knew the Brit was losing the argument to the blond. He returned the man’s glare with one final one of his own, before turning his back on the man to face the young woman again.

 

“What must I do? It is imperative that I arrive in Moscow on time.”

 

“Come with me for a moment.”

 

She led him over to the side, away from the careful gaze of the guards. They stopped by the far wall, the woman turning to watch as the attendant chatted animatedly with the guards that had arrived. Fortunately, the uniformed men looked either unsurprised or uninterested in the attendant's complaints - the country was in the middle of a national crisis, after all, and the police had more important matters to attend to than a misunderstanding with a wealthy foreigner. 

 

Now that the rage from being manhandled by security guards was subsiding, he could was able to take in the woman that had come to his aid.

 

She was bloody _gorgeous_. Her blond hair was done up tightly under her hat, though a few loose strands had broken free and framed her petite face. She was likely a few years younger than himself, he thought, her youthful glow still apparent under slightly blushed cheeks. Despite her soft appearance, this woman was clearly anything but a child; she was poised and elegant in her every movement. Even as she stood in the centre of the crowded train station, there was a calmness and a reservedness to her that echoed years of patience.

 

He mentally thanked himself for having cleaned up a bit in the car on the way to the station, but he still felt woefully disheveled.

 

“You should wait here." She set her bag down on the wooden floor, the heavy sound it made surprising him. Where was she going that she had thought it necessary to bring so much?

 

“May I see it?”

 

He blinked. “It?”

 

“Your ticket.”

 

“Oh, of course. Right.” A deep blush spread across his cheeks and down his neck. A lovely lady had come to his rescue and he was struggling to put together a proper English sentence. He dug into his breast pocket and retrieved the folded paper. She took it from his hand and began looking it over silently. Some flicker of emotion crossed her features, but he was not quite fast enough to identify it before it was gone.

 

He reached up to scratch the nervous spot behind his ear. “I cannot even read it, but the date appears to be wrong. It says the first of March, I believe, but I know for certain it is the fourteenth.”

 

The woman’s face crinkled in amusement. “I am afraid we use a different calendar than the British. I assure you that it is in fact the first of March, but you may call it whatever you would like.”

 

Witty as well as beautiful, he thought. If it weren’t for the snow dripping cold down the back of his neck, he would have thought he was dreaming. Perhaps she was an angel. Either way, his interest was piqued.

 

“Is it always this difficult? To navigate the station, I mean.”

 

“Are you suggesting that the station master is out to get you?”

 

“Oh, I do not doubt it for a moment.” Another breathtaking smile as a reward.

 

“Well you must be very lucky to have escaped with your life, then.”  

 

“And where are you escaping off to?” He asked, nodding at the bag at her feet. He was surprised to see the smile on her face become a little more forced.

 

“To Moscow, the same as you. Just for a few days.”

 

“With so much luggage?”

 

“You know how we women are.” It was clearly meant to be a joke, but it fell flat. His questions had upset her, somehow, and he wanted to kick himself for being the reason her lovely smile had dimmed.

 

Kilian was a businessman, for god’s sake, surely he could manage his way through a simple conversation without stepping on too many of her toes, could he not? He had long ago learned that discourse was a sort of dance, with one partner leading and the other following. But he had been too rough, too sloppy, and was ruining everything. If his time with the Russian beauty was to continue, it was time for the lady to lead.

 

“It is only my second time travelling to Moscow. Perhaps you could give me some ideas on where to go?”

 

As he had hoped, the woman looked relieved at the change of topic. One step forward, he thought.

 

“I have not been to Moscow in quite a while, but it is a wonderful city. You can find anything in the markets there. And St. Basil’s Cathedral - you must see it! The restorations have done wonders for the church and they say the paint is as beautiful as it ever was.”

 

She continued, enthusiastically listing out every place she had ever been in Moscow and everywhere that she still hoped to go. He hung off of every word. It had been a polite enough request, but the way she spoke about the city had him committing to memory each and every suggestion. He would surely be thinking of her when he eventually set out to see the places himself. It would only be a pity that he wouldn’t be able to visit them all. He hoped his memory would later be able to reconstruct the melodic way she recounted each tale.

 

They fell into easy conversation, him asking her a million questions about everything under the sun, and her responding with just as much delight. She was smart, he was quick to notice - well read and intricate in her speech. She flickered between her perfect English and the Russian names with ease, and he felt himself entranced with the way her tongue formed the words. Where the station attendant’s voice had been harsh, hers was gentle and melodic. Two more steps forward.

 

A duchess, or perhaps the daughter of a wealthy aristocrat? She likely had someone waiting on her hand and foot. True enough, her clothes were not nearly as ostentatious as some of the women he had met, but many of those had been the mistresses of wealthy businessmen who had basked in the attention that their costly outfits afforded them. Gilded women, he called them.

 

But this was not that, he was sure of it. The woman before him did not flinch as a nearby beggar crowed his sorrows from the station doors, nor did she look with disdain at the young woman who knocked her elbow in her rush to the closing ticket booth. She seemed to brush it off with ease, as though they were only momentary hiccups in her story.

 

There was no doubt that the woman before him was simply beautiful, in body, mind, and spirit. A true lady.

 

A lady with the appearance of Aphrodite.

 

Just as he was about to begin asking her about the old arbat in the heart of the city, the station bell began to sound.

 

“Well,” he said, gesturing in the direction of the platform, “shall we be off, then?”

 

They weaved their way through the crowd of passengers making their way down the short hallway, which opened up into a wide platform where the dark locomotive sat, puffing dark smoke into the sky. The staff had immediately begun directing and shuffling passengers into various train cars, with those holding a higher paying ticket receiving a decidedly more gentle touch than those destined for the crowded third class carriages.

 

Knowing at least from experience that the first class carriages were towards the front, Killian started toward the far end of the platform.

 

“I suppose I was very fortunate to have met you. I can only imagine-” he glanced to the side, ready to provide his assistance with her bag if she needed, and was met with empty space. The blond had not followed him. He frowned, turning to where she stood in the centre of the platform, her bag still clutched in her hands.

 

“What is the matter? Are you not coming?”

 

She gave a half smile. There was something pitying in the way she looked at him, as though he was missing something obvious. “I am afraid we won’t be travelling in the same car. Good luck, Killian Jones.”

 

He felt a rush of confusement at her words, followed quickly by understanding and disappointment. Before he could form the words to say goodbye, the blond woman was already heading in the other direction, disappearing into the crowd.

 

And just like that, their dance was over. He hadn’t even thought to ask her name.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_Petrograd; March 14th, 1917. 1:15pm._

 

He had stood fixed in place for a few moments after the blond hair had long disappeared from view. How had he forgotten to ask her _bloody name_? She had known his name, somehow.

 

He was pulled from his thoughts as he spotted a train attendant skip to the bottom of the small set of steps and start to pull the metal ladder up. Killian jumped into action, whipping out his ticket and hopping through the narrow doorway of the train. The attendant seemed irked at his near tardiness, but clipped the ticket and motioned the passenger to proceed down the hallway.

 

The windows on the train were frosted over, and the few rays of sunlight that managed to peek through the thick layer of salt and dirt caked over the glass did little to light his way. The ceiling was low and rounded, giving the impression of walking through a narrow tunnel. Several times he had to stop and press himself against the wood panel sides to allow people to pass. Killian was all too relieved to find his cabin, ducking inside the small room and sliding the door shut with a click.

 

The interior was much the same as it had been on his journey to Petrograd; soft bench seating occupied the length of the two walls, with twin rectangular windows looking out through the exterior wall. Between the windows was a small mirror, fixed in place above a rounded metal basin and a shallow ledge for personal effects. Though he would be sorely lacking company for this journey, he was at least grateful that he would not have to put up with his companion’s attempt at lowering the makeshift bunk that folded away into the wall above their heads. He grimaced at the memory of his friend pulling at the metal contraption, the metal levers screeching their protest as Will had begun to put his weight on the precarious platform.

 

He shucked his coat and hung it on a small hook beside the door. Left in his long sleeves and vest, he seated himself on one bench, propped his feet up on the other, and began settling in for the long trip as the train began to slowly pull out from the station.

 

The next two hours of the journey passed at a glacial pace. There were cabins on either side of his own, and he could occasionally hear laughter ringing out from the one behind him. Were he at home, Killian might have jumped at the chance to join in with his fellow passengers, the chance to best someone at a hand of cards tempting in it’s own right. It had recently become one of his favourite part of his voyages; a couple of drinks over exaggerated tales of youth and adventure.

 

But without a way to speak to his fellow passengers, stopping in to the cabin nextdoor seemed pointless. It was simply another way that the trip seemed to be going sour for him. Perhaps travelling solo wasn’t as glamorous as he had envisioned it to be. Of course, he didn’t particularly miss his companion’s loud snoring, nor could he really complain about his expanded legroom, but as the minutes passed, Killian found himself wishing more and more that he hadn't turned down Will’s offer to accompany him to Moscow.

 

He passed the time reading and filling out the crossword puzzles he had saved from old newspapers he had collected before his trip. The heavy rocking of the train did little to help and he often found himself struggling to read the small print. He soon gave up entirely, letting his thoughts drift as he stared out the windows.

 

They had been passing through countryside after countryside for most of the trip so far. At least, Killian _assumed_ it was countryside; everything was covered in a thick layer of snow and the blowing wind gave the appearance of being in a snow globe. But other than the occasional church steeple rising in the distance, there was no way to know how far out of Petrograd they really were.

 

 _The blond woman would know_.

 

The thought made him cringe as he mentally kicked himself. How had he lost her so quickly?

 

But then again, that was always his way, wasn't it? Never knowing what he had until he had lost it. Everyone who came into his life seemed to be temporary, leaving as quickly as they had come and leaving nothing but fuzzy memories behind. He had argued with Liam when he was a child, insisting that their mother had had eyes as blue as the summer sky, just like his own. His brother had of course been firmly convinced that they had been dark as chocolate and that it had been their father who had given him his eyes. Killian had always hated that; the idea that he shared anything with that man repulsed him.

 

And now his brother was gone and he found himself forgetting more and more. His curly hair had been a certainty; he'd never forget how jealous he had been as a child of the attention his older brother had received from the ladies in the city. Liam had always been the handsome one, dressed in his fitted naval uniform and shiny boots. They had practically clung to him, begging for stories about his voyages, about what it was like guarding the British waters. No one had looked twice at the younger brother, covered in dark grease, his hair permanently sticking on end. Perhaps it had been better that way.

 

Of course that had all changed after the accident; the finest Jones brother was gone and the attention had begun to fall heavy on the second brother’s shoulders. At first it had only been attention gained from sympathy, tearful eyed wives of fellow naval officers inviting him in for tea and telling him what a ‘good man, a really good man’ his brother had been. Killian had declined every offer; these women had never known - and would never know - Liam as he had, and he couldn’t help but feel it cheapened his brother’s memory to discuss him with those that he was sure Liam himself had only met once or twice before. It didn’t take long before the wives stopped calling on him altogether. Another friendly door locked behind him.

 

He had been stupid and it had cost him.

 

Killian sighed, running his hand across his face as he squeezed his eyes shut. He had made a promise long ago not to wallow in the sorrows of the past. How was he meant to fight his ghosts when it still so easy to fall back into those memories, to relive that pain again? What was he supposed to _do_?

 

A flash of bright eyes and a heartwarming smile filled his mind and all of a sudden he was pulled into a different memory.

 

He had just returned to the house, his stomach in knots as he had approached her. She had been in the backyard, enjoying the summer heat, a light breeze stirring the ends of her hair. A sob had caught in his throat as he had taken her in; she was beautiful.

 

He had been so nervous, his hand wringing creases in the hat clutched between his fingers. It had taken everything he had had not to immediately sink to his knees in front of her and beg for forgiveness. He had been wrong - so very, _very_ wrong - and she had been the one to hurt because of it. It had taken too long, far too long, for him to come to his senses. He had spent so many years wallowing in self pity and grief, unable to think of anything but his own pain. So many years wasted; so many that he could never get back.

 

As it was, his voice had shaken when he had explained himself to her. He had stumbled through it, trying to find the words to help her understand what he had done. She had been remarkably patient, listening intently to every word. The tears had come not long after the first apology had left his lips, and before he had known it he was on his knees, weeping uncontrollably. All of the pain and sorrow he had pushed down over the years had suddenly resurfaced with a vengeance, and he had let it wash over him, too weak care.

 

He had felt rather than seen her move toward him, her slender arms circling his bowed neck as she had pulled him into a tight embrace.

 

 _I love you_.

 

It had been the first time she had said it.

 

The first time she had forgiven him.

 

But in that moment, the words had only made him sob louder. He would never be the man deserving of her forgiveness, he had been sure of that. His grave had been his to dig and his alone, and he hadn’t earned the compassion of anyone who dared to approach near enough to throw him a rope. His years of misery had turned him into a monster and it had taken nothing short of a tragedy to sober him.

 

It had been too late for him then, of course. As always he had been too late and the world had moved on without him. She had forgiven him, but she did not _need_ him, and there would be little room in her life for the angry coward that was Killian Jones.

 

No, he would need to do better - be better - to make up for everything he had lost. He would need to vow to never again sink as low as he had. For her, but also for himself. There would be no more missed chances, no more sleepless nights of regret. A man unwilling to fight for what he wanted, deserved what he got.

 

That was the promise he had made to himself that sunny afternoon in the garden. Today would not be the exception.

 

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but every moment that he sat alone in his cabin felt like an opportunity wasted. He was only a few hours into his trip and he had already encountered more problems than he cared to handle. The only thing that had felt completely and entirely _right_ had been his few moments with the beautiful angel from the station. There was something about the woman, something that screamed mystery and intrigue.

 

Perhaps there was a reason that he felt drawn to her, that his mind seemed to worry over her like a tongue seeking out a missing tooth. The chance to discover  _why_ was right in front of him, the mystery tucked away somewhere on the long train to Moscow. He would be a fool to let her disappear into his memory like so many others.

 

For once in his life, it might not be too late.

 

In the end, the decision wasn't all that difficult, really. Stuffing his bag and coat in the narrow gap between the seat and the window, Killian slipped from the cabin and began making his way down the hall.

 

He needn’t even talk to her, he reasoned to himself. Perhaps just seeing her again would settle his mind, ease his curiosity for good. He had been taken off guard by their initial encounter, his emotions running high from the near scuffle with the guard. Perhaps she had warts on her nose, or spent her Sunday afternoons at dogfights. Unlikely, he thought, but entirely possible.

 

When - _if_ \- he saw her again, he was sure the illusion would be shattered for good and he would be able to go along his merry way. 

 

He was grateful that when the blond woman had left him on the platform, she had left him with at least one clue; she was _not_ , in the same carriage as him. A small victory, to be sure, but it at least eliminated the dozen or so cabins in his own car. He walked until he had reached the end of the corridor, leaving only the heavy metal door separating the train cars. There was no guard on duty; the majority of the railway staff had likely been diverted to the cargo trains. A slight turn of the handle and he would be in the void between the carriages.

 

It was at that moment that a particularly vicious rattle of the locomotive nearly threw him from his feet. He clutched at the wall with his hand, righting himself. _Bloody hell_. If it was this turbulent inside the train, he couldn’t possibly imagine what it would be like outside. The sun was not yet down, but at the speed that they were going, he doubted he would be able to see much farther than his nose through the blizzard of snow. Perhaps he should wait until the train pulled into the next station, wait to cross the platform when it was safe and steady.

 

The only problem was that he had no idea when that would be. An hour from now? Four? And then of course there was the issue of the train being stopped for only a few minutes at a time. He couldn’t very well trap himself inside each car and wait until they reached the next station to search the next one.

 

He should turn back, return to his cabin and sleep away the next 18 hours. He had to admit that was certainly tired enough and the lingering hangover had certainly taken a toll on his system. And he had stacks of paperwork in his satchel that he needed to review before he arrived home, a workload that would surely take hours. Some peace and quiet would do him good.  

 

But turning away now would mean turning away the chance to see the blond again. It would mean never learning her name. He _had_ come all of this way, he reasoned. What was a few more steps? His body moved before he consciously made his decision.

 

He rested his hand on the heavy handle and pressed.

 

The Brit was immediately engulfed in a flurry of snow, a cold wind whipping at his face where he stood in the doorway. Killian raised his arm to cover his eyes as he stepped onto the narrow walkway that separated the two cars. The platform was slick with snow, the rattling of the train more pronounced on the rickety structure. Luckily the next door appeared to be fairly close - close enough to touch with one hand.

 

Reaching back, he pulled the door shut behind him and walked blindly ahead across the grated flooring to the attached car. He threw himself against the heavy door, using it for balance as he felt around for the handle. It took a moment, the task made harder by the raging blizzard around him and he had to squint against the sharp snow. There was a moment of panic when he found it - he hadn’t considered the possibility that it could be locked - but to his relief, the door opened under his weight.

 

He stumbled inside, slamming the door shut behind him. The noise must have been louder than he had thought, for only a moment later the nearest cabin door slid open and a plump, middle aged woman with an impractically wide brimmed hat stuck her head out. A small sound of surprise escaped her lips as she took in the sight before her.

 

He could only imagine what he looked like to her, covered head to toe in thick, icy flakes and with no outerwear in sight. He gave her a reassuring smile just as she yanked the door shut again, her trill voice no doubt relaying her strange encounter to her cabin mates. Language barrier or not, he knew the sound of gossip being spread.

 

Killian ran a hand through his hair to shake away some of the larger chunks of snow - his earlier attempts that morning at cleaning up now a lost cause - as he glanced around the train car. Judging by the similarity to the car he had just left, it appeared to be another first class carriage.

There were no windows on the cabin doors, so he would be left knocking at each, hoping that he did not end up being thrown from the train by a hoard of irritated passengers. Finding the blond woman would be a challenge.

 

That was, if finding her was even a possibility. He was only now beginning his search, and he had possibly the entire rest of the train to cover. There would be no way of knowing what _carriage_ she would be in, let alone the exact cabin.  

 

No way of knowing if she would even _want_ to see him.

 

The thought made his stomach churn; he hadn’t even considered that. He had been immediately enchanted by the Russian belle that he hadn’t stopped to think....

 

He tried to flick back in his mind to their earlier encounter, looking for any sign of discomfort or disinterest from the lady. Every subtle movement away, every slight downturn of her mouth immediately became amplified in his mind. Had _he_ been the cause of her annoyed huff earlier? No, that had surely been at the locks of hair that had sprung free from her hat, hadn’t it? The snow had begun to saturate the fair strands and he had had to fight to keep himself from brushing them away himself.

 

No, he couldn’t start thinking that way. It would drive him mad.

 

Pushing away his lingering doubt, he began his search. He worked his way down the carriage, knocking on doors one by one and nearly holding his breath as he waited for each response. Though no one threw him out to the tracks for his disturbance, neither did any passenger who answered the door resemble his blond. He had tried to explain himself to the first few passengers he encountered, but they only gave him a bewildered look before sliding the door closed with a bang. He had quickly given up that approach, resorting instead to a quick murmured apology after each failed encounter before turning to the adjacent cabin to try anew.

 

The fact that he rarely had the chance to see inside the compartment before he was rudely shoved away did little to waver his resolve; she had clearly been travelling alone when she had stopped him. It was the doors that never opened for him that caused a nervous knot in his stomach to form. What if she had fallen asleep and he had simply passed her already?

 

When he reached the end of one carriage, he quickly braved the short gap outside to the next one. The third carriage he entered appeared to be a second class carriage, with rows upon rows of bunk beds in place of cabins. Sleepy eyed travellers eyed him curiously as he made his way down the center aisle, dripping wet snow into the thin carpet. One boy leaned over the railing of his top bunk to watch him pass, but he was quickly pulled back from the edge by a younger girl in a green dress and stockings. Even the appearance of a strange man at the door was not enough to draw her from her play, it seemed.

 

Without any walls or doors to separate them, it took little time to check each bunk for the woman. But just as before, she was nowhere in sight and Killian was once again left disappointed. He had to squeeze between a group of men gathered near the back of the car to reach the door, his ruffled appearance no doubt helping part the tight crowd.

 

The next few carriages were similar to the last, and Killian was nearly worried he would chew through his lip each time he left the train car empty handed. None of the faces - sleeping or awake - had remotely resembled the green eyed woman he had met on the platform a few hours prior. And he was running out of carriages to check.

 

The last three passenger carriages were flat bed carriages. Unlike the train cars before it, these had no bunks, and passengers were forced to make due with the little comfort that the solid wooden floors and walls provided. Although spartan, the fares were far cheaper than the others - a strong appeal to the poverty stricken region. It was simply a way to get from point A to point B, nothing more.

 

He finally spotted her as he passed through the second of the carriages. She was nestled along the side of the wall, her coat spread beneath her as a makeshift cot. The bag she had been carrying in the station sat awkwardly in her lap, and she seemed to be engrossed in a set of papers laid on top of them. She had taken the pins out of her hair at some point, and the long blond locks that had been tucked away before were now cascading down her shoulders.

 

She looked even more angelic that he remembered.  

 

Not willing to waste another moment, he crossed the train car in a few strides, stepping over sleeping passengers as he did so.

 

“It appears we meet again,” he announced boldly, grinning as he crouched down to her level.

 

Her green eyes snapped to his in an instant, wide with recognition at the sound of his voice. He must have startled her more than he had thought, because her hands immediately - and rather desperately, he noted - grasped at her papers as she hastily shoved them into her bag. The instant they were out of sight, she seemed to relax, her shoulders dropping as she looked back toward her unexpected visitor.

 

He had prepared for a thousand different outcomes over the course of his short search for her, each imagined scenario becoming increasingly brutal in his mind. He had imagined her pleased, indifferent, and even enraged at his forwardness, the latter of which had caused him the most anxiety. What he was not prepared for, however, was the surprised exclamation that he was greeted with.

 

“You are soaking wet!”

 

He looked down at his clothes. With his thin white shirt clinging awkwardly to arms and his dark vest damp with melted snow, he did look a mess. It wouldn’t be long before the cold air of the carriage left him shivering in his boots. He cursed himself silently for leaving his coat in his cabin.

 

“The weather does not appear to be on my side today,” he muttered sadly.  

 

He watched as she looked him over, her brow furrowed as she took in his appearance. “If you are not careful you will catch your death.”

 

“You needn’t worry about me, love. I am a survivor.”

 

She hummed at that. _A bloody terrible start, but it would have to do_ , he thought.

 

“Where are my manners? We have not been formally introduced. Killian Jones.” He tilted his head, eyeing her. “But you already knew that, it seems.”

 

The woman flushed slightly, embarrassed to have been caught. “I read your name off of your papers back at the station.”

 

“Ah, I should have guessed. Do I have the privilege of learning your name?”

 

To his surprise, she hesitated. Had he hit a nerve?

 

“It is Emma,” she said slowly, “Emma Nolana.”

 

 _Emma_. The beautiful name suited her, he thought.  He could not hide a look of contentment in his face.

 

“It is a pleasure, Miss Nolana.”   

 

She nodded likewise, but there were still signs of confusion on her face. “Why are you here?”

 

He reached to nervously scratch behind his ear. It was a fair question, but not one he was prepared to answer.

 

“I needed a walk,” he answered, lamely. She looked skeptical at the lie.

 

“Through a snowstorm?”

 

“There is not that much room to walk, to be fair. And honestly, I am not certain that I will be able to return at this point.”

 

“Well it should be safe to return once we reach the station. We should be nearing Tosno soon.”

 

He raised his eyebrow in surprise. “How would you know that? You cannot possibly see out of these windows.”

 

She held up a small pocket watch cupped between her hands. The lid was popped open, revealing an intricate face and sleek hands. It appeared to be expensive, an intimate gift from a suitor, perhaps? He would not be surprised, even if the idea did spark a small flame of jealousy in his chest.

 

“The train keeps to schedule fairly well,” she explained, oblivious to his inner turmoil over the timepiece. “I know how far each station is. I have been keeping track of our progress.”

 

“That is very clever,” Killian praised, as Emma placed the timepiece in his hands to examine it.

 

“Do you travel often, then?” He asked instead, hoping to learn more about his mysterious new friend.

 

“Not as much as I would like,” Emma admitted. A strange look of melancholy filled her eyes and when she spoke again, her words were more tender. “Perhaps there is still hope for me yet.”

 

“Well, you have made it this far,” Killian pointed out.

 

A small smile replaced her near frown. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

 

Perhaps it was the dim lighting in the carriage, but the Russian woman’s eyes seemed to darken to a deeper green. Killian found himself entranced. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be a sailor ensnared in a siren’s trap. It took all of his energy to keep his gaze from flickering down to her lips.

 

 _Bloody hell he was losing his damned mind_.

 

“You would be well prepared for it,” he started suddenly, hoping to break the tension before he really did something stupid. “Travelling, that is. I have never heard anyone speak two languages as beautifully as you do.”  

 

“Thank you. And it is three, actually.”

 

Again, he failed to hide his surprise. “Three?”

 

“Italian. I learned it from the hea- _er_ , well, from my _friend_.”

 

“You are extraordinary.”

 

He hadn't meant to say the words out loud, but they were out and he couldn't retract them. Besides, they were true. She _was_ extraordinary.

 

Emma’s attempts to wave off the flattery were hindered by the bright blush that filled her cheeks.

 

“It is a skill acquired like any other. Hard work and perseverance.” She tilted her head, teasing. “Well, and perhaps a bit of natural talent.”

 

“I shall keep that in mind, then.”

 

All of a sudden, the shrill shriek of brakes being applied filled the carriage. The carriage shook with the sudden shift in gears and Killian wobbled where he was crouched. The rest of the passengers were no better, and the Brit watched as a middle aged man in a thick winter coat who had been snoozing in the corner immediately clapped his gloved hands over his ears, his bushy mustache quivering as he let out a string of curses. Emma jumped at the commotion as well, though she recovered almost instantly.

 

“You see?” She asked with a smug smile. “Tosno, just as I had said.”

 

“Indeed,” Killian replied. He gazed around the train car, disappointment settling in his stomach. He would need to return to his carriage very soon, or else risk a boarding passenger claiming his cabin. Besides that, his clothes were damp and the chill that had slowly been seeping in was threatening to make his teeth chatter.  

 

_He wasn’t ready._

 

The realisation hit him hard. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. He had only just found her and she was just as amazing as he had remembered. How could he sleep knowing that she was only a few train cars down - sleeping on a coat, no less? He needed more time.

 

“Come with me,” he pleaded suddenly, holding his hand out to her to help her stand.

 

She only stared back, shocked.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“Come with me. To my cabin.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the blood drained from her face. “Not like that,” he quickly clarified, “I only mean - well, you see…”

 

Bloody hell, he was making a mess of this. He bit his lip for a moment as he gathered his words, though he kept his hand outstretched toward her. It was a genuine offer, why was he so nervous? He needed to get a grip on himself, lest he frighten her off for good. Nothing but the truth would suffice.

 

“I am travelling alone and, as you might have noticed, I am doing very poorly at getting myself to and from my destinations. You are… resourceful and intelligent. I would be honoured to have you accompany me as my guide while I travel to Moscow.”

 

Emma sat back, and the Brit hoped that the she was considering his proposal, despite the stunned look on her face.

 

“But I am not a guide,” she spluttered out, “I have rarely ever visited Moscow, let alone guided someone there.”

 

“I would be willing to pay. Handsomely, in fact.”

 

“What makes you think that I need any of your money?”

 

She seemed to cringe at her own defensiveness. Short of asking the young lady outright, he had to way to know what her financial needs were, but she _was_ sitting on the floor of a third class carriage. Certainly he could match a sum that would satisfy her, could he not? Either way, he did not wish to offend her and decided on another approach. He shrugged.

 

“Either way, you should have a proper place to sleep. It is a long journey and you cannot spend it sleeping on the floor,” he argued, gesturing to her makeshift bedroll.  

 

“Surely there is someone else,” she protested weakly. “Someone more qualified than me.”

 

He gave a half smile at that. “I am not sure if you have noticed, but there seems to be a distinct shortage of translators in this carriage.”

 

Still, she wavered. He could feel the train continue to decelerate under his feet as they pulled up to the station. They would only have minutes until the train would be at a full stop, and then only a few minutes more from then until they were on their way again. She would need to make her decision quickly.

 

Emma was looking at where his hand hovered in the air, still outstretched toward her in invitation. He wanted to groan at her hesitancy, but he understood. He might have been a man, but he was not completely daft. Killian had noticed the moment she had clutched her bag closer to her chest upon his arrival, he had seen her quick glance to the side every time the sleeping man next to her shifted in his sleep. His kindness and his handsome face would do little to stifle the millennia of instinct that was likely screaming at her to run from the strange man offering promises for pennies. It did not help matters that he was practically kneeling at her feet, drenched to the bone. He could only hope that she would be willing to take a chance on him.

 

He cleared his throat, a final ditch effort forming on the tip of his tongue.

 

“I am a man of my word, and I promise you that my offer is true. You will receive full payment for your services, and if you would ever like to leave, I will not stop you. You have my word.”

 

She held his gaze, distrust appearing to flicker across her face as often as curiosity. The train had ground down to a near stop now, and Killian was sure that they would be hearing the sound of the metal steps being pulled out any second now. It was now or never. The frantic racing of his heartbeat in his chest seemed to drown out everything else.

 

Slowly, and with all the caution of a bird eyeing a fox, Emma placed her hand in his.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry for the delay, folks! I'll try to keep it from happening again. That said, HelloTragic really deserves a shout out for this chapter being posted. Sometimes a swift kick in the butt is exactly what you need to get it done.)


	5. Chapter 5

_0.8km East of Tosno; March 14th, 1917. 4:57pm._

 

They had had to sprint to his cabin when the locomotive finally came to a stop at the station in Tosno; the train would only be stalled a short while before they were due to depart again, and Emma had not been keen on weathering the same storm that her strange new companion had. In fact, as Killian had paused for the fourth time to help her across the platform between the train carriages, Emma had had to wonder how he had managed to cross the first time unaided and barreling down the slick track at full speed. She hoped he wasn't completely insane.

 

Then again, perhaps _she_ was completely insane for agreeing to this madness to begin with.

 

Admittedly, she had been taken off guard by his offer. When the train had begun to decelerate into the station, she had attributed his initial look of disappointment and frustration to his wavering regard for her. The wealthy man was probably missing his luxurious, first-class cabin now, she had thought wryly. Though he had been facing away from her, she had easily imagined the look of disdain on his face. Emma had met more than enough dignitaries to know the look; it was the torn expression of someone who was used to gossiping about the vagabonds but, on the rare occasion that they were forced into the same breathing space, had the good sense to at least hold their tongues. Well, at least until they had passed out of their presence.

 

So when he had instead expressed his wish for her to accompany him, she had - quite understandably, she thought - mistaken his proposition as something less than gracious. The quick clarification had not been enough to dispel the rather inappropriate visions that had immediately filled her mind and she had not been able to stave her blush.

 

He was handsome - there was no denying it - but that was not reason enough to follow a stranger into their cabin on a fairly fantastical promise. A lump sum of rubles to act as a temporary translator and to stay in first class accommodations? The deal sounded too good to be true and her walls had immediately been thrown up.

 

But the businessman had been correct; she did, in fact, need the money. The trip to London was going to be long and she was going to need to keep a tight hold on her funds as it was. Besides, she was exhausted from the earlier trip and she was already dearly missing her bed. She had been cramped and uncomfortable curled up on the wooden floor, and the idea of a soft bench nearly made her groan in anticipation.

 

As the circulation began returning to her limbs, her mind began compiling boundaries and rules concerning her new position. He had only asked for her to accompany him to Moscow, and there was no reason for that to be an issue for her. He hadn’t asked for any papers or documents from her, and he did not seem to either know or care about the possibility of her being a fraud. As long as it remained that way, her cover would remain intact.

 

The walls she worked so hard to maintain were not going to be felled by a handsome face.

 

Still, Emma thought. Perhaps it would be easier to make her boundaries clear without his ridiculously blue eyes staring her down.

 

She piped up as they entered his cabin, turning to slide the lock on the door into place.

 

“I have some conditions, if I am to be your guide.”

 

“Already? Well, that was quite quick, wasn’t it?”

 

She rolled her eyes, even though he wouldn’t see it with her back to him. “Firstly, I am in charge of my own travels. Whatever tasks you demand of me cannot interfere with me getting to _my_ destination.”

 

“Why, love? Do you have somewhere you need to be?” There was something halfway between curiosity and amusement in his tone. She ignored the comment, turning back to face him.

 

“Secondly, wha- _what are you_ _doing_?”

 

The businessman was turned away from her, his head bowed as his hands worked away in front of him. He had already removed his vest, the wet garment crumpled in a heap on the bench, and was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.

 

Years of etiquette training screamed at her to look away, but she couldn't seem to peel her eyes away from the smooth muscles of his back outlined by the clinging white shirt. Outside of the rather explicit descriptions of male anatomy from Ruby, Emma had never laid eyes on an adult, nude, male body before. He was sleek and toned like the marble statues she had often gazed upon at the palace, the muscles in his shoulders rolling as he moved to strip off his shirt. She turned quickly before he could notice her stare.

 

“As you said before,” he started, seeming unconcerned, “I must change my clothes. You may turn your back if you would like.”

 

“That was not an invitation to begin undressing in front of me!”

 

“Well, I would have asked your permission, but it _is_ my cabin -”

 

“ _Our_ cabin.”

 

“Yes, of course, _our_ cabin, and I believe you were in the middle of listing out your demands.”

 

“Secondly, there will be no undressing in front of me!”

 

“Too right, love.”

 

“Do not call me ‘love’.”

 

“Is that another one of your rules?” He was smirking, she was sure of it.

 

Emma felt her cheeks flush with anger. Was he _trying_ to provoke her, or was he simply an ass?

 

“Is this how you treat all of your personal staff, Killian Jones?” Emma shot back, unable to hide the venom in her tone. “With ridicule?”

 

He stiffened, the corners of his mouth turning down and his head turning to the side ever so slightly. “What makes you think I have any staff?”

 

“You do, do you not?”

 

“No.”

 

Emma went silent. There was a finality, an honesty, in his voice that she hadn’t missed. His face had hardened slightly and for a moment he almost appeared _offended_ at her accusation. Surely he had to have someone at his beck and call back home, she thought, but the piercing look in the British man’s face said otherwise. Could a man as well dressed and wealthy as Killian Jones appeared to be really not have staff?

 

“Well,” Emma continued, a little more softly, “you must have business partners.”

 

“Aye, of course.”

 

“Then you should consider me as one of them. We may not have a legal contract, per say, but it is just as binding as one and you will act in the same manner that you do with all of your partners. Is that clear?”

 

Killian seemed to sober at that, the look of irritation fading from his face and slowly being replaced by hints of shame and embarrassment. He reminded her now of a naughty schoolboy who had been caught cursing in the halls. It was almost humorous to see a grown man react to her caregiver voice in the same way that the young Romanov children had.

 

“I apologize if I was rude. I only thought that…” He trailed off, seeming to reconsider his next words. “Well, anyhow, it was not my intention to offend you. Please, continue.”

 

“Thirdly, there will be no discussion of private matters.” When he nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly, she continued. She listed off her set of conditions, finding more and more terms coming to mind as she went along. There was a certain level of comfort that was gained as she laid out the terms of their arrangement - which included everything from sleeping arrangements to prohibited topics of discussion - though a small voice in her head noted that she was building her walls up so high it would be a wonder if she could even see the sky any longer. She shoved aside the intrusive thought and instead started on her rules regarding dressing and undressing in the cabin.

 

Killian scratched idly at his beard as he considered each of her terms. When she was finished, he reached out his hand to shake hers. He looked a bit ridiculous standing before her, half dressed in nothing but his trousers, black gloves and loosely buttoned shirt, but she grasped his hand in hers and sealed the deal with a firm shake.

 

“A business woman, through and through,” Killian noted. “I can respect that.”

 

“I should hope so, Killian Jones,” she warned. Emma turned and began laying her possessions on one of the benched seats. She was just removing her own coat when she heard him speak again.

 

“I have a condition of my own, if you will allow it.”

 

Emma turned to eye him. His face betrayed nothing of the nature of his request. ‘Alright,” she agreed, slowly.

 

“Please, call me Killian.”

 

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. The use of Mr. and Mrs. was not customary here, with Russians preferring to address others by their full name instead. Emma knew what British customs dictated, but she hadn't thought anything of it. Either way, it was such a simple request that it caught her off guard. “Is that all?”

 

“If you would, please,” he shrugged almost sheepishly. “I cannot say I am particularly fond of formalities.”

 

“Alright,” Emma agreed again. Surely there was no harm in that? It did not mean that they were friends by any means, and she _had_ just given him a long list of demands that he had readily agreed to. It would be a sign of bad faith, she thought, to deny him this. “Killian.”

 

He grinned at her use of his name.

 

“Thank you, Miss Nolana. Now, if you please, I really would like to change into something warmer and I would not wish to break one of your terms already.”

 

“Oh, right. Yes, I - I will wait outside, then.”

 

Making doubly certain that her papers were tucked away in her bag, Emma stepped outside the cabin and shut the door to wait. It would be a nuisance to have to switch every time they needed to change, but it would have to do. She had set the boundaries firm for both of their sakes, and a few moments spent loitering in the narrow hallway was certainly worth the extra bit of privacy it provided. She only hoped Killian would not be too long.

 

 _Killian_.

 

Even in her thoughts, the name had a nice ring to it.  

 

Emma Lebedeva was no fool; she had seen the look of want that had filled his eyes more than once already. It was nothing like the puppy eyed longing that August had shown back at the train station. It was surely something hungrier than that, and she did not doubt the sincerity that coloured his tone every time words of good grace left his mouth. For whatever reason, he truly did believe she was a marvel.

 

Despite the British man’s clean cut appearance, there was a distinctly roguish side to him that he seemed to find hard to keep under control. She felt it in every smirk, in every wise cracking comment. And the deal that he had made with her -  a vaguely large sum of money for an unspecified job - could only mean one thing; the man was nouveau riche.

 

Emma had been around enough of them in her lifetime to know the signs and the dangers that came with that title. The impulsivity always seemed to emerge first, as the person began testing the limits of their new wealth. Automobiles, clothes, and even new homes would be bought on a whim, and Emma often wondered if they had the chance to really appreciate them before they were shoved off to side to make way for the new plaything. Most of the time, she thought not. It was the revolving door of women that had always pained Emma the most, however. Bigger houses meant more rooms to fill and more spacious beds to keep warm. Emma had been relieved that her background role in the palace had meant she had never been tasked to recall the names of the many mistresses that had been ushered through back doors to the awaiting guest apartments. Never for the Tsar, of course; he had only ever had eyes for his Tsarina.

 

She couldn’t help but look towards the door and wonder how many young ladies were waiting at home for the man currently redressing in their shared room. What would they think if they saw him now, leading a new young thing by the hand without a second thought? Perhaps he would never admit to having been with her at all. She wouldn’t blame him; upholding one’s reputation was a serious matter, and he was clearly taking a risk as it was. Still, Emma’s stomach turned sour at the thought of being swept under the rug as someone’s dirty little secret.

 

Boundaries. Boundaries were going to be essential if she were going to make it through this trip in one piece.

 

Just then, another large rocking of the train had her reaching for the walls to steady herself. She managed to keep upright, but she thought she heard a muffled ‘thump’ followed by a faint ‘bloody hell’ from the other side of the door.

 

“Are you alright?” Emma called through the door. “May I come in now?”

 

She took the small grunt that followed as a yes, and slid the door open just enough to slip through. He had claimed the bench across from where she had left her belongings and was dressed again - well, _mostly_. He hadn’t replaced his vest, which remained in a heap with the rest of his damp clothes where he had abandoned it, but he had changed into a black button up shirt and similarly dark trousers. The chill of the cold winter air must have been bothering him more than he had let on, as he had pulled his gloves up tights to his wrists and had put on his coat.

 

The businessman was riffling through his satchel, appearing to be searching for something. Unsure of what to do herself, she allowed her old habits to guide her and moved to pick up the mass of wet clothes next to him. The cabin was not entirely warm, but Emma hoped that by hanging the articles on the coat rack that they would dry in time. She lit the small mantle lamp affixed to the wall just in case, the scent of kerosene strong and immediate as it flickered to life.

 

“You did not need to do that.”

 

Emma turned and noticed the man’s blue eyes watching her intently. She wasn’t entirely sure what he was referring to, but he quickly clarified. “My clothes. It is not one of your duties as my translator.”

 

“Are you afraid that I will charge you for the service?”

 

“No, but I do not want you to feel obliged -”

 

“I assure you that I do not.” Emma frowned at the look of uncertainty on his face. “Are you unused to having favours done for you?”

 

“I am a businessman,” he pointed out. “Favours are my stock and trade.”

 

“But surely you expect some sort of payment from your business partners after you grant them a favour, do you not?”

 

“Naturally, yes.”

 

“Then they are not favours. They are deals. Trades.”

 

He eyed her curiously, his mouth set in a firm line, before turning up into a humourless smile. “Point taken.”   

 

With that he gestured for her to take the seat across from him, which she took.

 

“Where did you want me to start?” She asked, thinking it better to inquire about her role now rather than later.

 

He looked at her in confusion. “What do you mean?”

 

“As your guide. Would you like me to begin preparing an itinerary now? Or when we arrive?”

 

He hesitated before answering, looking a bit disappointed that the conversation had veered back toward the terms of their arrangement. “As you wish. We have more than enough time to prepare for that.”

 

Emma couldn’t help feeling a bit surprised. He had invited her to his cabin to be his assistant, had he not? What else was she meant to do for the next dozen hours or so? Emma Lebedeva was no one’s escort.

 

“You may sleep if you would like,” Killian continued, his focus back to rifling through his bag. “Travelling is always exerting, and you must be tired.”  

 

She was, but the stubborn voice in her head prevented her from acquiescing. “Perhaps in a little while.”

 

“In that case, perhaps we could do something to pass the time?” Killian held up a deck of cards, evidently the object he had been searching for in his bag. “Do you know how to play?”

 

“No.”

 

“I could teach you,” he offered with a slight shrug.

 

Emma blinked. Teach her how to play? She had watched the men at the palace play before, but no one had ever bothered to teach her how to play.

 

“Alright,” she agreed slowly, rubbing her palms along her skirt to smooth out the imaginary wrinkles there. He continued on, apparently unperturbed at her novice.

 

“Now, I thought we could start with something simple. Do you know how to play blackjack?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Well, it’s quite easy. But tell me, Miss Emma; are you a gambler?”

 

“Not particularly, no.”

 

“Then allow this to be the moment you succumb to your darker impulses.” He waggled his eyebrows dramatically, and she couldn’t help but roll her eyes in amusement.

 

“I would hardly call this a high risk endeavour. We do not even have anything to wager.”

 

He quirked an eyebrow. “Pride?”

 

“Oh, then perhaps this is high risk for you indeed,” she teased back, earning her a playfully affronted look.

 

“Now, Miss Emma, the trick to this game is luck.”

 

Emma looked unimpressed. “How can luck be a trick?”

 

“Believe it or not,” he began, expertly shuffling the square cards in one hand, “luck is a skill that can be acquired. Much like your affinity for languages, I would wager.” He must have noticed the skeptical look on her face. “You do not believe me?”

 

“Not in the slightest.”

 

“Alright, Miss Emma, then I will prove it to you.” He held the deck upright in his palm before her. “Choose a card, if you would, please.”

 

She picked up the top card and placed it face up as instructed. Despite the larger size of the first class cabin, there was little room to spare and the two were forced to use their laps as makeshift tables. Killian explained the game and Emma was surprised to find the objective relatively simple. He played the part of the dealer, admitting that the game was usually more enjoyable with more players but that they would have to make do.

 

Unsurprisingly, she lost her first hand badly, though Killian was quick to reassure her that he hadn't expected her to win on her first try. He was right of course, and Emma soon managed to to make calls that brought her hands nearer to twenty one. She had caught on quickly to the game, and she hoped he wasn’t imagining the impressed look on her travelling companion’s face as she turned up a perfect twenty one for the third time in a row.

 

They continued their game, Emma’s brow furrowing further and further as Killian suddenly began winning each round without fail. For every call she made, he was right there with a card that brought him one point closer to the target. Emma finally threw down her cards as Killian flipped over his second card to reveal an ace of spades, giving him another perfect blackjack.

 

“I am not sure I am all that fond of this game,” she muttered, as he collected her cards to shuffle.

 

“Would you like to know my secret?”

 

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “If it is ‘luck’, I must tell you that I am still unconvinced.”

 

“Not quite,” he hummed. Killian laughed as he watched her jaw drop comically as he pulled a Queen of Hearts from the edge of his sleeve.

 

“That is cheating!”

 

“Only if you get caught,” he shrugged, unconcerned.

 

“I believe it is cheating either way.”

 

“I did warn you. I make my own luck.”

 

“By cheating.”

 

“Only a little bit.” He was still smiling, clearly happy to have gotten away with his deception. “But you are right, I apologize. I was only trying to impress you.”

 

Impress _her_? “Why on earth would you need to do that?”

 

His grin faltered a moment, something in her question having thrown him. Though, for the life of her, Emma could not place what it was.

 

“Where would we be if the master was beat out by the student on their first attempt?” He answered simply. Emma’s internal lie detector sensed it was not the whole truth, but she chose not to push it. His secrets could be his own, she supposed.

 

Killian placed the cards in front of her. “Would you like to play again? I promise to play fairly from this point forward.”

 

Perhaps she should have been angry at his earlier deceit, but something told her that it wouldn’t do any good. Instead she picked up the cards and began shuffling them in the way she he had seen the men at the palace do. By some miracle, she managed to keep the entire deck from spilling out onto the floor as she did so.  

 

It was strange to think that only hours earlier she had been sitting alone, facing an uncertain future on her own. Though these were not the circumstances she would have chosen, she was grateful for the company. It couldn’t last long, of course; she would be back to her solitude the moment he no longer had use for her, but by then she hoped to be finished with him as well. The moment her contract with him finished, her new life would begin. It was comforting to know that she would be a few steps ahead of her plan on that front; a purse full of rubles would be an asset if she was going to locate the man who held her exit papers.

 

Still, she relished the idea that she would be able to keep some sense of normalcy over the next few hours. The threat of discovery still loomed over her - there would be no changing that until she was safely outside of the empire’s borders- but she couldn’t deny that the sense of imminent danger seemed to fade somewhat in Killian’s presence. If she closed her eyes, Emma could almost imagine she was back at the palace, the seat cushion beneath her nearly passable as Ruby’s mattress on the many nights that the two maids spent gossiping together like schoolchildren. Emma nearly sighed. Even though her friend had had valid reasons to stay behind, Emma couldn’t help but wish that it was her wolf eyed friend seated on the bench across from her.  

 

It wasn’t all bad, she reasoned. As they continued round after round of their game, settling into their seats as the train rattled and swayed around them, she had to admit that out of all of the passengers that could have accosted her along her journey, she was grateful it had been Killian Jones.

 

 _‘Killian’_ , she reminded herself. _Just ‘Killian’_.

 

Only moments later, however, the comfortable silence that had fallen over the pair was broken as the sound of creaking wood began emanating from the other side of the wall behind where Killian was sitting. It started low, and for a moment Emma wondered if it was an occupant’s nervous pacing that was causing the rhythmic noises, but the addition of a distinctly female moan clarified the situation rather quickly.

 

 _Oh lord, why was this happening?_ She couldn’t help the deep blush that began to colour her cheeks as the unseemly activities escalated further.

 

If Killian noticed, he did not say as much, his attention focused solely on the cards in his hand. _Perhaps he was used to it?_ The thought sent an unnerving chill down her spine. Was the man in front of her the type of man to take a woman against the wall of a train? There was certainly no reason to rule it out.

 

It was only when the noises reached their peak, a solid thump of a body against their shared wall that Emma lost her patience.

 

“Oh, how vile!”

 

Killian only chuckled, dealing himself another card from the deck. “They were gossiping earlier. Perhaps they ran out of topics of conversation.”

 

Emma made a face as she glared at the wall that separated the two parties.

 

“I would not wish to hear what they were discussing,” she muttered.  

 

“I could not understand them. Not that I would ask you to translate _that_ anyways,” he quickly clarified.  

 

She gave an appreciative hum as she turned her attention back to her cards. Now that Killian had stopped his tricky sleight of hand, she was actually doing fairly well. Though she was still convinced that the game involved more luck than skill, she couldn’t deny that her judgement was becoming better as the game went on. Emma grinned at his fake annoyed sigh as she laid down another winning hand, his own falling just short.

 

“How did you manage this far without a translator?” She asked suddenly, the question long overdue.

 

“My partner speaks Russian. It appears I am much slower at picking it up.”

 

“Your partner?”

 

“My business partner. Will. He travelled with me the first time, but unfortunately for me he had to leave Petrograd early to go to Moscow. I am to meet him there.”

 

“Ah so I am only to babysit you until you reach your friend?” She teased. “That should not be too difficult then.”

 

Killian snorted. “I promise to be on my best behaviour until then.”

 

It was at that moment that Emma’s stomach began to protest against the late hour. She threw her arm across her stomach to silence the sound, but it was too late. Killian’s eyes flicked up to hers at the noise and he immediately reassembled the deck he was about to reshuffle into a neat square.

 

“Well, Miss Nolana,” he started, brushing his hand across his trousers as he rose to stand, “I am famished. What say we go for dinner, hm?”

 

“You may go ahead. I will stay here, I think. I have some food in my bag.” Granny had insisted that she take along a small parcel of food with her before she left the palace, and the boiled eggs and cheese would not keep.

 

Just as he looked ready to argue, the lurid noises started up again in the cabin next door. From what Ruby had told her - which had been admittedly more than Emma ever would have dared to ask - Emma was surprised at how quickly they had recovered from their last tryst. And if the mumbled “bloody hell” from her companion was anything to go by, Emma wasn’t the only one to be disappointed by that fact.

 

She quickly tucked her bag in the corner of the cabin where he had only moments ago stashed his own.

 

“Perhaps it would not be too horrible to dine with you tonight,” she admitted, checking that her change purse was on hand.

 

The grin on his face was nearly enough to distract her from the sounds next door.

 

“I am glad you have reconsidered.”

 

He opened the door and gestured for her to lead the way.

 

“Shall we?”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Remember when I said the next update would be quick? Oops. But I actually have the next chapter nearly completed so hopefully that won't be long coming. Gotta thank HelloTragic again for pushing me to get this done!)
> 
> Review? Follow me on tumblr @best-left-hook-jones :)


	6. Chapter 6

_14 km North of Chudovo; March 14th, 1917. 7:41pm._

 

He truly hadn’t meant to spend their first few moments in the cabin together in a heated argument.

 

He had overstepped by undressing in front of her - he knew that now - but he hadn’t expected her to react as violently as she had. It had been a while since he had spent, well, _any_ amount of time with a woman, particularly one that he had bothered to learn the name of. He hadn’t wanted to push her.

 

That wasn’t entirely true. He _had_ , but perhaps only just a fraction, though. Just enough to see if he could see a glimpse of the emerald green in her eyes that he had seen in the flatbed train car.  

 

Instead, her eyes had filled with anger, annoyance and, worst of all, distrust. She had walls - he understood that - but as she had begun listing out her demands, he couldn’t help but think that there was now a moat between them as well. She wanted professionalism and boundaries, while he wanted…

 

Well, to be honest, he still wasn’t quite sure what he wanted. He had found her again, and while there was not an insignificant amount of satisfaction gained from that feat, it had done very little to relieve the itch he was feeling. It was as though he had coaxed a raven to perch on his arm, beautiful, and mysterious, but also flighty. She was clearly capable of holding her own, but that didn’t mean she would not flee if he got too close. It was difficult knowing that at any given moment, Emma was already ready with one foot already out the door.

 

Killian held out a steadying hand to her as they crossed the narrow platform between the trains. The dining car was the one directly before theirs, but it still meant that they would need to make the same daring shuffle that he had done to find Emma. He crossed first, opening the door ahead of her and guiding her by the elbow. Emma squinted at the flurry of snow, her long hair blowing furiously around her face, though she appeared steady enough in her footfalls.

 

They both half fell through the threshold into the dining car, their cheeks already slightly reddened by the whipping wind. He straightened himself out, turning reflexively to check that his companion wasn’t any worse for wear. It took not an insignificant amount of effort to resist brushing a few stray hairs away from her face as she brushed the snow out of her skirt folds.

 

The dining car was nearly vacant as they entered, only a handful of passengers willing to brave the cold between the cars to reach it. The seating consisted of heavy, ornate armchairs on either side of small circular tables lining each side of the carriage. They were fixed to the side of the walls like booths, the tall backs of the chairs concealing its occupant from behind. Despite it’s relative emptiness, each table was made up with a white linen table cloth and silver cutlery; the perfect picture of elegance for their more wealthy travellers.

 

Whoever had designed the carriage had had an eye for detail, and each meter of wall contained intricate wooden designs and individually placed lamps and ashtrays. Thin carpet extended the length of the room, trodden down and scuffed by boots and fancier heeled shoes. The liquor cabinet that took up a half of the panel near the attendant’s station was surely empty from the prohibition, the distinct lack of clinking glass bottles ringing through the cupboard doors confirming his theory as the pair passed by.

 

A handful of men in heavy suit jackets sat in the corner nearest the door, puffing away at their cigars as they drank their tea. The older gentleman nearest Killian turned to eye him momentarily before he flicked his attention back to his group, joining back in to and discuss politics and finances, no doubt. They seemed the sort, gruff and stiff as the smoke pooled around them and crept up the delicately carved walls.

 

The duo chose a table by one of the windows that appeared to be the least covered in soot. Not that it mattered, really; the sun had long since fallen below the horizon. He lent her a hand as she scooted into one of the ornate chairs, maneuvering carefully in the narrow space between the leather armrest and the tabletop. He waited until she was settled before joining her on the other side.

 

Almost as soon as his bottom had touched the seat, a uniformed attendant appeared at his side, no doubt to introduce himself and welcome his new guests. The man instinctively turned his attention toward Killian, though the businessman was quick to wave him toward the blond across from him. Emma took over immediately, slipping seamlessly into her role as translator.

 

After a moment, Emma turned her gaze back on Killian, asking him what he preferred for dinner.

 

“Whatever you suggest, Miss Emma,” he replied, careful to avoid choosing something that she would not also eat.

 

She nodded once before listing something off to the attendant, who gave a short verbal confirmation and left without another word.

Not too long after, the attendant arrived back with an array of dishes on a silver tray, his precision and steadiness remarkable considering the motion of the train. When everything was laid out - a selection of meats, breads, pickled root vegetables and even a small bowl of what appeared to be sweets - Killian gave the man a large handful of rubles. The man raised his eyebrows at the weight of the money in his hand and immediately took his leave, no doubt wondering how much extra he had been slipped and how well he would be able to hide his earnings from his colleagues.  Either way, Killian was certain that their little table would be receiving special attention for the rest of the evening.    

 

He removed one of the starched napkins from the table and tucked it across his lap, the shiny silverware clinking against porcelain as he began serving the food on to his plate. He looked up at his companion to see that she hadn’t moved a muscle, her hands clasped firmly in her lap.

 

“Please, do not hesitate on my account,” he encouraged, gesturing to the small buffet before them. “Help yourself to whatever you would like.”

 

For the upteenth time that day, she seemed to waiver at his offer. “It is not your responsibility to feed me.”

 

He wanted to sigh at her resistance.

 

“You are under my employ, after all. It _is_ my responsibility to ensure that you are well taken care of while under my service.”

 

“I am only under your service for the time being,” she reminded him.

 

“True enough. But you would not leave a man to dine on his own, would you?”

 

She still appeared uncertain but moved to take a chunk of bread from the basket nearest to her. Killian watched her chew the piece slowly, her pace even and polite, though her eyes betrayed her hunger and were already scouring the table for more. He felt himself relax a bit as she laid out her own napkin and began spooning a decent portion of meat on to her own plate. She dug into her meal, and Killian felt a small flame of satisfaction that she did not seem to distrust him enough to go on a hunger strike to spite him. But for all he knew, she could just as easily change her mind again. Killian dearly hoped not.

 

It was going to be a bloody long trip.

 

Settling into the upholstered seat, he pulled a flask out of his waistcoat. Emma’s eyes landed on it immediately and she looked around quickly before leaning in, her voice a hiss.

 

“ _Where did you get that?_ ”

 

“What?” He asked innocently. “The flask? I believe my friend Smee gave it to me. He-”

 

“No, the _alcohol_.”

 

“Oh, yes. That. I am afraid that was also Smee. He can be very resourceful when he needs to be.”

 

Using his thumb, he popped open the top and took a mouthful of the spiced rum, relishing the smooth burn down his throat. Wiping away a drop in the corner of his mouth, he held out the flash toward his travelling companion. “Would you care for some?”

 

If it were possible, Emma’s eyes blew wider than they already were.

 

“There is a prohibition in effect. You cannot be seen drinking.”

 

“Is that a ‘no’, then?” He asked, jiggling the flask in his hand.

 

Despite his teasing, she seemed to consider it, her eyes fixed on the small metal container. He was almost about to retract the offer when her hand came up, beckoning for the flask. He handed it over immediately and she brought the flask to her nose. She was cautious, her face crinkling in disgust as the strong smell of the alcohol hit her. Then, without another word, she tipped the flask up and took a quick swig.

 

To his great amusement, she coughed and spluttered as the strong alcohol went down. She gave him a small glare before she too burst into laughter. She shoved the flask underneath the tablecloth as the attendant came over to see what the fuss was about, but as neither could form words through their tears of laughter, the man graciously took his leave. With the attendant’s back turned, she slipped the flask back to its owner, who replaced it at his side.

 

The laughter subsiding, Emma grabbed her handkerchief and began dabbing at her teary eyes. Even with her eyelashes saturated and her cheeks wet, she was still the most graceful thing he had ever seen. How had anyone seen it fit to place her in a third class carriage? It astonished him to think that she could be anything other than an heiress, the way she carried herself. She had already shown herself to be secretive, but Killian couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to it than that.

 

“What?”

 

He nearly blushed at being caught staring.

 

“I apologize. It is only that you are - _er_ \- very elegant for someone travelling third class.”

 

“Are you teasing me now?” She raised an eyebrow at him as she tucked away her napkin again.

 

“I would never,” he replied, his voice full of sincerity. “You are very well-mannered and composed. It makes me wonder what it is that has brought you so far from home.”  

 

“Well, I will have you know that Russian women are always elegant.”

 

It was a weak deflection, but it reminded Killian of another mystery he hoped to unravel.

 

“Nolana is clearly not a Russian name.”

 

“Indeed not.” There was a strong sense of finality in her statement.

 

“Come, now,” he prodded, “There must surely be a story behind that.”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she teased, reaching across to pluck a small red candy from the silver dish on the tray. But just as quickly, Killian’s hand shot out and pulled the dish away. His face was earnest, his voice sincere.

 

“Perhaps I would.”

 

Emma only scoffed. “So I may not have any sweets until I answer your questions? Am I a child to you?”

 

“Far from it. However, I would like to know more about you.” His mind worked quickly, formulating a plan. “How about a trade? A candy for a question.”

 

Another raised eyebrow and a careful smirk told him that she was not about to take him up on the bribe. “I am afraid it does not work that way. We agreed not to discuss personal matters. Besides, I am not that eager for dried varenye anyhow.”

 

“Dried what?”

 

“Dried varenye. It is a candied fruit,” she stated simply. “And would you look at that? An answer. I believe I have earned myself a sweet now.”

 

Before he could move, she had reached out quickly and stolen one of the candied strawberries from the bowl. Clever girl. But it was still a deflection and they both knew it. He was getting nowhere with his direct questioning and it wouldn't be long until she lost her patience with him entirely. He would need to try a different approach. There was only one reason that she would be so coy with her answers. Perhaps it was time to address it. 

 

“You are afraid.”

 

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Of you? Certainly not.”

 

“No, of talking. Of revealing yourself.”

 

“Well, I do not need you to talk. You are something of an open book, you know?”  

 

“Is that so?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

He looked down at his plate, searching. A small feeling of impending victory filled his chest as his eyes landed on what he was looking for. He snatched it up, turning the small oval in his hand.

 

“What is this worth?”

 

“What? An egg?” Emma asked, confused.

 

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, well done, Miss Nolana. But how much is it _worth_? From a market, let us say.”

 

She hesitated.

 

“You do not know, do you.” It wasn't a question, and by the way that Emma appeared both tense and guilty at the statement, Killian thought he was on to something.

 

“I do not understand the point of your silly games,” she spit out instead.

 

“I was only confirming a theory that I had been considering for a while now.”

 

“Pray tell.”

 

He tilted his head, unfazed by her sharp tone.

 

“You are not accustomed to being on rations,” he accused.

 

When her eyes grew wide, he continued. He was on to something, he was sure of it.

 

“You do not know how much a single egg would cost, despite the price being well beyond a common man’s means.” He gestured at the array of food before them. “Yet you do not seem awed at the selection of delicacies in front of you.”

 

“A lady should never appear overly passionate about arrangements made for her. It would not be proper.”

 

His face darkened with annoyance. “Do not do that. You and I both know you are much more clever than that.”

 

Emma went silent. He hoped that she was mulling over his words, but he couldn't rule out that she was planning an exit strategy. He dearly hoped she wasn't.

 

After a moment, she spoke, her tone calmer and more careful than it had been. “Alright, Killian Jones. What are you proposing with this ‘theory’ of yours?”

 

“ _Killian_ ,” he reminded her. “And I believe you must be someone of importance. You are too smart, resourceful and, frankly, beautiful to be travelling in third class. Which can only mean that you do not want to be found, and only people worth recognizing are afraid of being found.”

 

She only blinked, and Killian fleetingly thought that she would make a hell of a poker player if she were ever to brush up on her card skills. “And just who am I, then?”

 

“Daughter of a police chief?” He suggested, though the look on her face let him know immediately that that was a miss.

 

“How would a daughter of a police chief be recognizable,” she pointed out. “Moreover, why would she need to hide?”

 

“Scandal? Or perhaps to evade a former rival that your father had imprisoned years ago? _Or_ ,” he stressed, leaning forward slightly, “perhaps you were sent by your father to find someone who has eloped without paying their debts.”

 

She laughed at his - admittedly ridiculous - tale. “A bounty hunter? Truly? That seems unlikely.”

 

He shrugged. “It was only a theory, as I said.”

 

Though he had been obviously wrong in the details, he could not help but feel that he was close with his initial assessment. Despite his later playfulness, she had stiffened at the early implication that she was not who she seemed to be. She was important, somehow. If only she would tell him the truth.

 

Emma’s curiosity seemed peaked at his questioning and she was staring at him with intrigue.  “Why are you so curious?”

 

“Why are you so secretive?” He countered.

 

“I am not secretive. You simply ask a lot of questions that I do not wish the answer.”

 

He raised an eyebrow, unable to hide his smirk. “Such as your name?”

 

“You underestimate how much power a name can have,” she warned, her voice becoming stern again, her eyes flashing. Despite his best instinct, he pushed on.

 

“Is that why you will not tell me? Does your name have power?”

 

Emma leaned forward a bit at that, the green in her eyes darker than before. She seemed to weigh something in her mind for a moment, her lips pursed together as she searched his eyes. He wasn’t sure what he would have said next because all of his thoughts turned to ash as her emerald eyes flickered down once before rejoining his.

 

“And what about you, Killian Jones? Is it common for a man of your standing to have a tattoo?”

 

The comment left him stunned and he followed her eyes to where the dark lines marked his forearm. At some point in their conversation he had moved the sleeve of his shirt up slightly, revealing the red heart and dagger that occupied most of his right forearm. But it wasn’t the intricate design that seemed to catch her attention.

 

“Who is Milah?” She asked, her voice full of curiosity - and, perhaps, a bit of fear? He would have to return to that thought later, his mind whirling.

 

He couldn’t talk about her. Not now. Not ever, perhaps.

 

“Someone from long ago,” he managed out, shucking down his sleeve to cover the marks and dropping his eyes back down to the table.

 

He couldn’t see the reaction on her face, but the soft “oh” that escaped her lips was enough to tell him that she was backing down. Still, he could not bear to raise his eyes to hers again. He did not want her pity, even if all evidence suggested the woman in front of him was clever enough to decipher what Milah had meant to him.

 

Of course, Emma would never really know. Milah had been unique and irreplaceable, the only thing in his heart that had remained untouched by grief and anger. His memories of her were a refuge when he was hurting, but mostly they were a place where he could wallow in his own self loathing in peace. For a long time, the pleas of people telling him to pick himself back up had fallen on deaf ears, and it was only the memories of his former lover that had fueled any sort of fire in his spirit. Though he had nearly always immediately tried to douse the flames in the nearest barrel of rum, on some level he had been grateful for the pain; it had served to break the feeling of emptiness and sorrow that threatened to pull him under. Pain, he had believed, was better than monotony.

 

Emma Nolana would never understand that.

 

He prayed that she would never understand that.

 

It was a long moment before she spoke again, her voice significantly softer now.

 

“My father is British.”

 

His head whipped up to face her again, his eyes slightly wide. The blond seemed to be debating something in her mind, her teeth worrying over her lips as she prepared herself to speak again. When she did, her voice was slow and even, picking each word carefully.  

 

“His name is David Nolan. He worked in Russia for many years before marrying my mother. My mother was a Russian school teacher, and I am told it was love at first sight. They moved to England ten years ago, but I chose to stay behind and work. My father was a scientist, you see, and there was not enough work in Russia for him anymore so he returned home. They still send me gifts from time to time.

 

“As for my name,” she continued, a small smile curling up on her lips, “In Russia, it is customary for the child to take the father’s last name, with the daughter’s name having the feminine ‘a’ at the end. I am Emma Nolana."

He wished he could find the words to speak. Finally, an answer to one of the many questions he had pestered her with. But the knowledge seemed to sit a bit heavier in his heart. Just as every move she had made since they had met only a short number of hours ago, the moment had been on her terms and hers alone. She had revealed a piece of herself to him, not out of force, but as a gift. It did little to soothe the persistent ache in his heart - old wounds always seemed to carry fresh pain - but he couldn’t help but feel a touch lighter that she had entrusted him with a detail of her past. He hadn’t cracked her walls, but that did not mean that she was unwilling to throw him a rope, it seemed.  

 

He opened his mouth, ready to say something, anything. Just as he was preparing to thank her - for what, exactly, he wasn’t sure, but it felt necessary somehow to do so - she reached across the table and popped another red candy into her mouth. She gave a small hum of satisfaction, a bit overdramatically, he thought, and in that second the moment of revelation was gone. He gave her an amused look for her theatrics and took one as well, the sweet flavour bursting on his lips. She was right; they were good.

 

They finished their meal in light conversation. The food was chosen well, and Killian made sure to say as much, complimenting Emma on her selection. She only blushed, waving off the praise and changing the subject quickly. Killian was relieved that she did not appear to be too put out by his earlier interrogation, however a part of him wondered if that was because he hadn’t gained any more ground than she had been willing to give. A stronger part of him hope that he had proved himself to be a fair confidant and that that was the reason for the easy conversation that they had fallen into.  

 

Over the course of the evening he also learned that she was a private tutor for a handful of wealthy children. She did not reveal much about her mysterious employers, however Killian did gather that there was at least one boy in the family and that he enjoyed geography. She spoke fondly of the children and their parents, her voice soft as she recounted a time when the young siblings had been given toy pistols one day and had spent the afternoon tormenting one another with them.

 

He spoke of home as well, though he had admittedly blushed when confessing that he lived alone and was not much of a socialite. Emma did not seem phased by his solitary lifestyle, asking him instead about the types of books he read in his spare time and the types of meals he was able to prepare himself. He laughed at the disgusted look on the blond’s face when he had revealed his recipe for his fish stew, arguing that the taste of it trumped it’s consistency. She further balked at that, promising to provide him with a much better recipe later when she had her journal paper.    

 

It felt like only moments later that the attendant finally announced that he was finished for the evening, prompting Killian to tip him an extra bit of coin for the late hour. The train car jostled them as they walked back to the cabin a little while later, the two giggling like school children as they fought to remain upright. Emma had explained that the snow had been wreaking havoc on the railways, causing delays and disruptions along the line. As they passed over a particularly rough area of track, shaking the locomotive to its core, Killian couldn’t help but wonder how the train didn’t fall apart entirely.

 

By reflex, he reached for Emma’s hand to steady her, and was surprised to find her skin calloused underneath his as they brushed his exposed wrist. He frowned at the rough texture. Such hard labour would hardly be common for a woman of her standing, even as a tutor - unless, of course, he had been wrong in his assessment. He sighed; another two steps back, it seemed.  

 

“I must apologize for the journey being so rough for you,” Emma laughed, pulling him from his thoughts. Her cheeks were slightly flushed from laughter.

 

“Well, I must say it hasn’t _all_ been that terrible of an experience,” she admitted with a smile. “I _was_ rescued by a fair maiden from a very angry station attendant, after all.”

 

“I am sure you would have managed on your own eventually.”

 

“You think so?”

 

“Absolutely not,” she laughed, and he revelled in the sound. “You would have been a goner for sure.”

 

“Hmm you are probably right,” he mused, letting himself sway slightly closer to her as though he were about to recount something truly scandalous. “I believe that makes you deserving of a reward.”

 

Her eyes seemed to grow a bit wider at that, and he noticed them briefly flicker to his lips and away. Was it just his imagination, or was the angel blushing? Interesting.

 

“What did you have in mind?”

 

He took another half step forward at the half-hopeful sound in her voice. He wasn’t quite close enough to make their positions improper, but he was near enough to see that her eyes had darkened considerably. Still, though, he could sense a slight hesitation.

 

“Please, you couldn’t handle it.” He let the ‘t’ hang sharp in the air. Though he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment in the night that their conversations had taken on a more flirtatious tone, there was no mistaking the electricity that sizzled in the air between them now. It was nearly palpable, and though it was not nearly one sided, Killian wasn’t certain what her reaction would be to his forwardness. Indeed, he wasn’t quite sure what it was he was playing at himself. But whatever he had been expecting wasn’t the sultry return that he received.  

 

“Perhaps _you_ are the one who couldn’t handle it.”

 

It was a dare - no, a _challenge_. He had pushed her and she had pushed back in equal measure. All he had to do was take it. It wouldn’t take much, just a slight lean forward. A gentle press of his lips against hers. Or perhaps he could tease her more, a peck to the cheek to leave her unsatisfied and begging for more.

 

Killian Jones was not entirely inexperienced when it came to women; it was simply another set of sins that stained his already disgraceful past. A quick romp with a handful of nameless and faceless women had brought a sort of catharsis to him on the days when his demons seemed to gain the upper hand. The feeling of sweat slick bodies tangled together for a night of ecstasy filled his mind, and it was almost too easy to imagine enticing the same groans of pleasure from the lips of the beautiful woman in front of him. It would not be the same primitive and carnal drive with Emma, of course. She was an angel that he did not deserve, and if by some miracle she deigned him worthy of any part of her, he would be sure not to waste it. It was not the cruel intoxication of loneliness and grief that drew him toward the blond haired beauty in front of him. It was something more, something far more meaningful than he could describe with words.

 

Something that he had not felt in a very long time.

 

A sudden vision of long dark hair and brown eyes filled his mind and he froze. The rush of adrenaline through his veins seemed to slow and his heart - which only a moment ago had been filled with warmth - clenched in his chest. The wrong side of deja vu cut through him and he couldn’t help the doubt that settled over him.

 

The feeling that this was a mistake.

 

And so he faltered. The moment lingered a little too long, the indecision in his eyes a bit too clear, and he watched, crestfallen, as her walls shot back up in an instant. She had placed the moment in his hands, and he had fumbled it. Another three steps back.   

 

He opened his mouth to explain himself, but she had already disappeared into the cabin.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

_23 km South of Vyshny Volochyok; March 15th, 1917. 12:45am._

 

Emma had feigned sleep when Killian had entered the cabin twenty minutes later.

 

Twenty minutes after absolutely and resolutely _nothing_ had happened.

 

Perhaps it had been childish, but she hadn’t been able to bear facing him after the near kiss in the hallway, and by the sounds of his footsteps wearing holes in the flooring outside, neither could he. So she had sat, wringing her hands in her lap and trying to muster the courage to say or do anything. Leaving was not an option; she was still in need of the money that came with her task and there was clearly no reason to fear him making any sort of unwelcome advances against her. He had been the one to back off first, after all.

 

But the question was _why_.

 

While she chastised herself now for her stupidity, it wasn’t as though the evening had gone poorly. In fact, she had to admit that she had been rather enjoying herself until the night had taken an unexpected turn. He had wanted to kiss her, she had been sure of it. The heat in his eyes, the small parting of his lips as his gaze had flickered down to her own. She had only been kissed a handful of times - and most of those were stolen kisses from her youth, when a celebratory atmosphere and the gentle words of the kitchen boy had been enough to sweep her off of her feet. But as out of practice as she might have been, Emma was sure she knew the signs, and in that moment Killian Jones had _wanted_ her.

 

For a cruel moment she allowed herself to think that he had been intentionally playing with her, a sort of payback for her teasing at the table, but she quickly shook it off. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been because of that. He had been a good listener and she was sure that he hadn’t feigned his interest in her tales about happier times at the palace, even if most of the details had had to be tweaked. It had been difficult to find topics that were entirely safe to discuss without compromising her identity, but as the evening had wore on she had found a sort of rhythm. Her words had flowed naturally off of her tongue and she had allowed herself to be immersed in the memories of hot summer days in the palace gardens, evening strolls through the hallways with Granny and morning breakfasts with Ruby. Despite the homesickness she had felt at points, their conversation had been cathartic and she had been glad to share her tales with someone.

 

He had not revealed much about himself - he had mostly asked questions about herself - but she had learned one thing of importance; he had loved and lost someone dear to him. _Milah_. Seeing the tattoo on his wrist had admittedly shocked her; she had never seen anyone of his wealth and rank bear one and certainly not one of personal significance. Though she had been eager to know more, she hadn’t asked; just because he literally wore his heart on his sleeve did not mean it was a story he wished to share with her. As someone who kept more than her share of cards held close to her chest, she understood that, and she had kept that knowledge at the back of her mind throughout the rest of their dinner together.

 

If she was honest, her thoughts had flickered to the scrawled ink name moments before their near kiss. Part of her had wanted to test - to know - what role this woman still played in his life, if any. She liked to think that the Killian Jones that she had come to know over the past few hours would not have kissed her if there was a woman waiting at home for him. If his reaction were any proof, she couldn’t rule it out.

 

But something in her gut told her that that wasn’t the entire story. This was not a man who was struggling with the temptation of an affair. Whoever this 'Milah' woman was, Killian truly loved her and longed for her. It was not a move made out of lust, but one made out of longing for another. It was the only truth that made sense.

 

He had said that the tattoo was a remembrance for someone in his past, but Emma was not so naive as to think that that meant that the past was still in the past. She had seen the same haunted look before in Victor, the court physician. Dr. Whale had always been kind to her and the royals, a faithful servant to the empire and one of the cornerstones in the battle for the tsarevich's health. But he had ghosts of his own, and his often came in the form of his two eldest sons who had died in the last war. He had never spoken to her about them, but word had made its way through the palace as it often did and she knew how much the loss tormented him, even now. No one ever doubted the doctor’s dedication to his work or to the family, but Emma sometimes wondered if there was another reason for Victor's long hours of study, constantly attempting to find a way to heal without end. Emma had thought the pursuit extreme, but it had seemed to settle his mind. And whatever helped ease the loneliness and sorrow for even the slightest moment had to be good, did it not?

 

Perhaps that had been all that the moment had been to Killian; not a heated urge to scratch an itch caused by close quarters on a long train ride, but a momentary longing to soothe an ache in his heart.

 

The thoughts swirled in her mind as she considered everything anew. When they finally settled again, she came to a decision; it mattered very little why Killian had backed off. It only mattered that he had and that they had stumbled upon another boundary that would now need to be respected. There was no reason to discuss it; the 'nothing' that had happened could remain just that.       

 

And so she had closed her eyes and evened her breathing when the sound of the door sliding open had filled the otherwise silent cabin. She had heard him step into the room, his footfalls cautious and uncertain as he made his way to stand just in front of her.

 

He blew out a long sigh, the scent of rum strong on his breath. It seemed he had decided to dip back into his stash while out in the hallway. She couldn’t really blame a man for turning to his second vice when the first failed miserably. Emma had known many alcoholics in her time at the palace, and their stories all seemed to sound the same; it was far easier to forgive oneself when you no longer remembered your own name.    

 

The sound of a heavy coat being slung over a hook near the door followed next, and she heard him kick off his shoes before the creak of the leather seats let her know that he had moved to the bench across from her. Even with her eyes closed, Emma could tell the moment that Killian dimmed the oil lamp between them, the last bit of light that she had been able to make out through her eyelids snuffed out. There was silence again, and Emma worried that he was on to her little deception. Worse, she worried that he would call her out on it, forcing her into a conversation she dearly wished not to have.

 

But no such comment came, and before long, the man’s breaths began to relax and deepen into a light snore. Emma waited another few moments to be sure before cracking open an eye. The oil lamp hadn't been entirely extinguished as she had thought, the small flame left burning giving off just enough warmth and light to make out the features of her companion. Sure enough, he was passed out in the seat across from her, his lips slightly parted and his body relaxed. 

 

Even though Killian’s suggestion to rest was well advised, she wouldn’t. Her mind was too full, the leather seat covering too unfamiliar beneath her. Instead, she watched the man sleep, his head pillowed on a jacket that he had tucked between himself and the window. It was amazing that he was able to sleep with the heavy rocking of the train. She had never been one to sleep, even on the few excursions she had made by train with the imperial family. She was always keenly aware of every knot and rivet in the tracks, jostled awake by even the smallest of tremors.

 

Her companion, on the other hand, seemed quite capable of finding himself comfortable no matter how cramped the conditions. It could not have helped matters that he had fallen asleep with his leather satchel wedged between his right side and the window, the bulky item no doubt digging painfully into his side. He would awaken sore if he remained like that, she was sure.

 

With a sigh she scooted forward and with one hand, slowly inched the satchel out from under him, careful not to disturb him. With the other hand, she stuffed her own wool shawl in the space where the bag had been, feeling victorious and satisfied when the man immediately snuggled in closer to the soft bundle.    

 

She sat back again in her seat, the bag resting heavy in her lap as she watched him settle back into a deeper sleep. The bag was heavier than it looked. It appeared well-loved too, with the likely once fine leather now covered in light scuff marks. She could tell where someone had attempted to clean it in spots, where the colour seemed slightly more rubbed and faded, but it was the large, metal insignia adorning one of the flaps. It was round, about the size of her palm, with three stars arranged in a vertical line down the middle.  Though it might not have been as lavishly intricate as some of the designs she was used to seeing decorating the imperial officers, it was clearly a symbol that held power and it was clearly military. On the backside of the flap was a single name, engraved in gold letters of looping scrawl; _JONES._ Well, at least there were no surprises there.

 

It was strange to think of the man in front of her having any association with war. That was not to say that he did not have the physique for war - he did. He appeared tall and strong and, despite the borderline alcoholism, perfectly healthy. But his face wasn’t covered in half healed scars and his hair was longer than was suitable for uniform. There was a kindness and a tenderness about him that didn’t fit her vision of the bloodstained and battle-hardened soldier.

 

Of course, there was a way to find out more; the answer was sitting in her lap. All she had to do was open it. He was asleep, after all, and it might be the only chance that she would be given to learn more about her travelling companion.

 

She waved and clicked her fingers in the air between them to ensure that he was well and truly asleep. When there was nothing, she opened the bag and began her search.

 

The inside of the bag was neat - _extraordinarily_ neat. Whoever Killian Jones was, he was clearly a man of discipline and orderliness, someone who took great care of his possessions. It fit, given the evidence of his military past. Everything in the bag seemed to have its own assigned place, right down to the small blue ink pen poking up from one of the inside pockets.

 

Most of the items in the bag were fairly standard, she discovered. A book about navigation, a bottle of pain medicine, some papers with the date and times of cargo shipments, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a small jar of toothpaste and a comb. She was only relieved that Killian hadn’t been awake to witness her blush furiously at her delicate handling of his undergarments. The shipment ledgers did not reveal anything of interest either, though she did note that most of the payments seemed to be made in ports in Petrograd and London. She had to scoot closer to the lamp to read the mix of bold printed letters and delicate scrawl. Many of the cargo shipments from the Admiralty Shipyard bore Killian’s signature, and those that remained unsigned had small notes scribed in the margins.

 

Emma was by no means an expert in espionage, but from the looks of it, everything at least appeared to be in order.

 

“I never took you for a thief.”

 

Emma jumped so high in her seat that she was lucky not to have dislocated something. Her head snapped up to find piercing blue eyes staring at her from the bench across from her. He hadn’t moved from his spot, his head still tucked into his makeshift pillow, but there was no sign of sleep in his features now. He had clearly been watching her for a while now. Emma’s heart nearly stopped in her chest.

 

“I am not a thief,” she breathed out, the nerves in her voice evident.  

 

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the satchel still grasped in her hands.

 

She couldn’t think of a single word to bring to her defence. “I was just…”

 

“Just trying to see what kind of man I really am?” His voice was harsher now, his anger no doubt building from the look of guilt on her face. “Try something new, love. It is called ‘trust’.”

 

“I am sorry.”

 

“That you were caught red handed? I am certain you are.”

 

“For betraying your trust,” she continued, ignoring his quip. “You took a chance by allowing me to share your cabin and I abused it. It will not happen again. I am so very sorry.”

 

Emma rushed to replace everything in the satchel as it was before, but it was made more difficult by the slight shaking of her hands. She did blush as she replaced the clothes, and though she racked her brain to remember the exact location that each item had been in when she had removed them, she was sure that at least some were inevitably going to be misplaced. It only helped fuel her shame as she wondered how much angrier he would be at the disorganization.

 

When everything was at least back in the bag, she fastened the flaps shut and handed the bag back to its owner. Killian accepted it with a harsh tug, shoving the bag into the seat next to him. Instead of tucking the bag away, he opened it again, his eyes flickering to hers as he checked and rechecked the contents. He had moved out of the range of the light, and Emma could no longer make out the flurry of emotions on his face. Emma sat back, avoiding his gaze as she chewed on her bottom lip. It was a moment later that she heard Killian let out a resigned huff and toss the bag back on the seat.

 

He had turned back towards the light and Emma quickly looked up to examine his face. Although he seemed relieved to find his possessions relatively untouched, there were still obvious traces of annoyance in his face.

 

It made her flinch. She had made a terrible mistake. She had spied on him and learned only that he seemed to be as truthful and honest as he appeared. How many times had she blasted him for making their arrangement personal? Chastised him for asking for answers to questions that he had no business knowing? She was a hypocrite, plain and simple. He would make her leave now, she was sure of it. Why would he not? She had betrayed the abundance of trust he had shown her by inviting her into his cabin, sharing his meals, and offering her pay for a job that she wasn’t entirely convinced he needed done. Leave it to her to treat an act of kindness with suspicion and distrust. She deserved to be kicked out, left to spend the rest of the journey in her third class carriage with the rest of the thieves and vagabonds.

 

Emma sat, eyes shut tight as she waited, resigned, for the words to come. She only hoped that he would be kind and that he would not ask her to pay for her half of the meal they had enjoyed together. She would not fault him if he did, but she wasn't sure she would be afford it. Even a quarter of the meal would have set her finances back a ways, and she hadn't meant to be so careless with her money so early on. She was barely hours away from home and she was already struggling to pay her debts.

But when the words of eviction never came, she opened her eyes. Killian had shifted back into his previous pose, his coat once again tucked against the window to keep the cold at bay, but he wasn’t asleep. He was reading, the novel that she had found in his bag now clutched in one hand, his eyes focus determinedly on the words in front of him. She was sure that he was having trouble making out the words in such dim light, but he made no move to illuminate the flame further and she did not mention it. Other than the slight tightness in his brow, there was no trace in his posture that an argument had just taken place.

 

Even though his gaze was pointedly elsewhere, Emma squirmed in her seat. What was she meant to do now? The prospect of sitting in awkward silence for the next dozen hours was infinitely worse than sitting alone, she thought. She needed to say something. She needed to fix things. So she asked the first question that came to her mind.

 

“You are not going to sleep?”

 

“Are you hoping to catch me unawares again?” He snapped back without looking up, though his tone held much less fire than it had before.

 

“That was not what I meant.”

 

This time he did look up, disappointment and resignation clear in the blue pools of his eyes.

 

“Perhaps instead of worrying about my own sleeping habits, you should return your attention to your own,” he advised, with a sigh. “You cannot expect to accompany me the entire journey to Moscow without resting.”   

 

“So I can - er - that is to say that you are not going to…” She was stuttering, she knew that, but she couldn't help her surprise. Was he truly letting her stay?

 

He looked at her curiously, his head tilting to the side and he took in her confusion. “Did you think I was going to ask you to leave?”

 

She blushed at how easily he had read her. “I was not sure,” she admitted. Her confession seemed to startle him, as though the thought that he would dismiss her so easily was somehow offensive to him. Given what she had learned about his character, perhaps it was. Emma watched his eyes flicker between her own as he looked at her anew. She wasn't sure what he was looking for exactly, but when he spoke again a moment later - his voice soft - she thought he hadn't found it. 

 

“Perhaps, then, we are in more trouble than I had realized.” 

 

There was a pregnant pause where no one spoke, the weight of the confessed distrust and wariness hanging between them. It was a far cry from the laughter and joking that had taken place only a few hours before, and Emma hated that she had been the one to sully that. He was still staring at her intently, but now there were hints of sorrow mixed in with the lingering anger in his eyes. She had disappointed him, and in more ways than just her snooping, it seemed. The knowledge that she had given him a reason to distrust her - that she had brought him any discomfort at all, really - sat heavy in her stomach. Granny would have been disappointed in her.

 

Her _parents_ would have been disappointed in her.

 

Killian turned his attention away from her then and began reading his book. Emma had been a maid long enough to recognize a clear dismissal when presented with one. In any other circumstances she would have flushed at his rudeness, but given that she was largely at fault for his sour mood to begin with, she said nothing.

 

This was not how she had envisioned the trip going. It should have been a cut and dry job for her, something that provided her with the cash that she needed. Nothing more. But now she had complicated things by being nosy - the one thing that she had argued against from the beginning - and she only hoped that with the morning would come forgiveness. If not, she would need to prepare herself for hours of silence and solitude.

 

But there was no use in worrying over that now. She had made her bed, and it was time to lie in it, even if she knew that Killian’s advice to rest in the literal sense was likely futile. Still, she would try, even if just to appease him. He did not appear to be trying to sleep again any time soon, and perhaps if she pretended long enough he would get his wish and she would doze off for a while. So Emma sat back in her seat, tucking her legs up underneath her as she settled into a position that mirrored Killian's. She brought up her coat around her neck and tucked her head into the large folds, shielding her face from the man across from her lest he find out that she had also been feigning sleep. Emma wasn’t sure - or willing to find out - what his reaction to that would be. Peeking through her eyelashes, she looked out the window and prepared for the long night ahead.

 

There was nothing to see given the late hour, but every so often she could swear she saw flickers of lights from towns in the distance. It was impossible, of course, given the restrictions on fuel, but she felt the exhaustion of the day overtake her and her mind clung on to the thought that somewhere out there were houses where families with full, warm hearths lay cozied together in a large bed, blissfully uncaring of the storm that raged around them. She could almost see it in her mind’s eye. Perhaps the children were snuggled in between their parents, wool socks pulled up high to keep out any cold that the hot fire missed. She hoped the children had gone to bed with full bellies tonight, but even in her imagination she was doubtful. The husband would have kissed his wife goodnight hours ago, she thought, and though he would hear her complaints and teases about the prickliness of his beard, in the morning he would wake to a steaming cup of tea from the samovar.

 

Emma let the scene wash over her, her body relaxing as the face of the nameless wife flickered between a stranger’s and her own. Even the spark of envy in her gut towards the fictional lady was not enough to dull the visions, and soon her mind was deep into memories of her childhood and her secret dreams for her future. Every so often, the sound of a page being turned entered her awareness and, almost on cue, the scene would change again. The visions danced across the inside of her eyelids like scenes from a film, though they were vibrant in colour, sound and smell. Slowly, she felt the last of her tension give way and, for the first time ever, she let the rocking of a train lull her to a deep slumber.

 

Emma was already long asleep by the time the locomotive pulled in to the next station, the black puffs of smoke blending seamlessly into the night sky. Although the train would only be at rest for a few minutes, the dark figures that had been waiting on the platform for hours for its arrival were quick. They emerged out of the night like ghosts, nodding sharply at the train attendants as they boarded the sleeper train. The attendants only nodded back, stepping aside to allow one of the groups of the armed men to pass.

 

The first pair of boots clambered up the short steps at the front of the train to where the conductor was waiting, hat in hand.

 

“Good evening.” The conductor’s voice was firm, a clear attempt at establishing his authority of his visitors. It may have been regulation to allow the military men on board, but it was still his train and he wasn’t prepared to hand over control so easily. It a sentiment that was quickly brushed aside by the military officer before him.

 

“Your passenger and cargo lists, conductor.” When the conductor hesitated, gearing himself up to remind him just who it was that was in charge, he added, “Quickly now.”  

 

After another moment of indecision, the conductor relented, shuffling over to gather the requested papers. When they were handed over, the officer turned away without another word and marched back out into the small hallway and down the steps to the platform where the rest of the unit remained. The papers were divided up between the awaiting men, who quickly scanned the pages, their eyes squinting against the dark and snow. The papers blew and shook in their hands with the wind, but not a single man said a word. The leader of the group waited as they read, the flicker of a lighter briefly illuminating his dark features as he lit a fresh cigarette.

 

Another moment passed as the soldiers finished their pages one by one. When the last man had signaled their readiness, the leader threw down his cigarette butt, crushing it into the snow using the heel of his boot.

 

“Let’s us begin.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: the fun begins! 
> 
> Sorry for the delay, but I am a beta for an author participating in the CSBB and we just finished a fantastic work that we're pretty excited to release soon! Keep an eye out :) 
> 
> I failed to mention this before, but if there are any history nerds reading, many of the characters that I've pulled from the OUAT universe (including Granny, Ingrid, Dr. Whale, Ruby, and others that haven't appeared yet) are actually stand ins for real life individuals back in Tsarist Russia. Many of the details and personal stories shared throughout this fic are at least partly based on their real life counterparts' accounts of living at the palace. 
> 
> Review? Follow me on tumblr @Best-Left-Hook-Jones


	8. Chapter 8

  _Kalashnikovo Station; March 15th, 1917. 5:16am._

 

The first thing that Emma noticed when she was awoken from her sleep was that she wasn’t in her bed. Even in the dark room, she knew that the ceiling above her was not her own, the faint light emanating from the dirty lamp casting unfamiliar shadows across the walls. For the briefest moment it made her tense, and it took forcing her mind to go over the memories of the last few hours to calm the racing of her heart.

 

The train. The argument.

 

Killian Jones.

 

She looked across to where the sleeping figure on the bench was curled up, his chest rising and falling in even waves. His book lay open in his lap, a thumb marking his place in the pages where he had left off. Emma was glad he had been able to fall back asleep after their fight. The fight she had started. The fight that somehow hadn’t gotten her thrown out on her ass like she probably deserved.

 

It was then that she noticed the second surprise; her shawl was splayed over her as a blanket, tucked around her legs and shoulders like a cocoon. She wasn’t sure exactly when that had happened, but she felt toasty and warm under the extra layer. Emma felt a flicker of shame as she realized who must have done it and that, despite her earlier betrayal of trust, Killian was still a gentleman enough to make such gestures. He was proving to be a much better travelling companion than herself, and she would have to find a way to make it up to him later.

 

Ruling out the sleeping businessman, Emma listened careful for the sound of whatever had drawn her from her sleep. There was nothing. The cabin was completely silent, the only sound in the air being the soft snores of her companion.

 

All of a sudden it dawned on her, the realisation clear and obvious; the engines had gone silent, the rhythmic rocking of the train halted.

 

They had stopped.

 

Emma grabbed for her pocketwatch and held it under the light of the lamp. There was no reason to be anxious, but Emma couldn’t help the slight shaking of her fingers as she pried the lid open. _5:16 in the morning_. By her estimate, they were likely in Kalashnikovo, but if that was the case then they were late. They should have been well on their way already.

 

A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts.

 

“ _Officers of the Imperial Staff. Open the door and present yourselves immediately._ ”

 

Emma felt all of the blood drain from her face. Oh God. They had found her.

 

She felt rather than commanded her body to move, and before her mind had fully caught up with the situation, her hands had begun shoving what few possessions she had removed back into her bag. _Her papers. What had she done with her papers?_ Emma turned and twisted the small dial for the lamp, immediately bathing the room in light. A slight, sleep addled groan echoed from the other bench at the sudden brightness, but she paid it no attention as she turned back to her bag. She nearly sobbed with relief as she found the documents stashed away in an inner pocket, the crumpled sheets trembling in her hands as she smoothed them out on the seat.

 

 _Emma Nolana, born 1893, Petrograd._ A lie _. Emma Nolana, only daughter to David Nolan._ A truth. _Emma Nolana, a tutor visiting a sick friend._ Another lie.

 

She repeated her story to herself over and over, the words running wild in her mind.  

 

“Miss Nolana, what is going on?”

 

The sound of his voice was enough to alert her that he was awake now as well. Perhaps it had been her to wake him, or maybe it was the knocking at the door. It mattered little though; Killian’s words barely registered in her mind as blind panic consumed her. A small voice in her mind reminded her of the need to mask her fear in front of her companion, but it was far too late for that. If there was one thing that Emma Lebedeva did not do well, it was behave with caution when backed into the corner. What did one more person matter when she was moments away from being lead away in handcuffs anyways? He was finally going to see who she really was, she thought wryly.  

 

There was no time to run, she knew that. The windows were likely sealed shut for the winter, and even if by some miracle she were able to pry them open, the train was barreling along the tracks far too fast for her to make any sort of escape.  

 

“Miss Nolana?”

 

He was in front of her now, his arms raised as if he meant to place them on her shoulders to still her. But he didn’t, and she brushed him aside, reaching for where her shoes lay on the ground next to her.

 

“ _Emma_.”

 

She turned at that, her eyes wild as she raised her gaze to meet his. He had never called her by her first name alone before. It had always been ‘Miss Emma’ or ‘Miss Nolana’. He was staring at her with concern, a clear reaction to her own panic. Oh god, he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve what was about to happen. Of the many things that Emma had hoped he would forgive her for, she had really hoped that this wouldn’t have had to be one of them.

 

“Please,” she begged, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Do not say anything. No matter what happens.”

 

He looked like he was about to argue, his brow creased and more questions than she was ready to answer on the tip of his tongue, when there came another knock on the door, this time harsher.

 

“We are Imperial Officers. _Open the door!_ ”

 

She wanted to explain, to reassure him that everything would be alright if he just listened, but there wasn’t time. Besides, how could she make such a promise anyhow? Without further ado, she slid the latch to the side and yanked open the door.

 

The officer in the doorway was already in a terrible mood by the time he stepped across the threshold into the small room. Even with the unfriendly scowl marring his small features, Emma could tell that he was young. His mousy brown hair was cropped shorter than what probably suited him, making the pixie-like ears that framed his face more pronounced. But it was the eyes that Emma noticed first, the piercing glare the same flat, dark green as his uniform, the whites slightly bloodshot from the late hour.

 

“Good evening to you both,” he started, his tone indicating the opposite. “We are searching the train. Papers?”

 

Emma handed over her papers and Killian, upon seeing Emma’s action, quickly rummaged through his own bag to do the same.

 

“Searching the train? For whom?”

 

The officer fixed her an icy glare. “I do not believe that is for you to know.”  

 

Emma fell silent, hoping not to antagonize the soldier further. He skimmed through the pages as Killian searched, his frown deepening as he compared it against his own set of papers.

 

“You are not listed as a passenger in this class, Emma Nolana.”

 

She had expected the question.

 

“No. I was invited by Killian Jones to join him in his cabin for the journey as a guide.”

 

The officer fixed his gaze over her shoulder to where Killian was standing, papers now in hand. “Is this true?” He addressed Killian gruffly.

 

“You must forgive him,” Emma intervened quickly. “He is an Englishman visiting on business. He does not speak Russian.”

 

“Ask him.”

 

She turned to Killian and relayed the officer’s question in English. Though he appeared to be bubbling with questions and the look of relief at being included in the conversation was nearly palpable, he replied with only a firm nod.  

 

“Very well,” the officer began again, his attention once again fixed on the blond. “We will start with you. Where are you travelling to?”

 

Another question she was prepared for.

 

“I am going to visit my friend. She is sick.”

 

“How unfortunate. Is she gravely ill?”

 

“I believe she is getting much better.”

 

The difference between the harsh interrogation she was undergoing now and the playful questioning she had received from August was nearly comical. There was no sparkle in the officer’s eye as he asked about her friend, no hint of affection as he asked her about her date of birth. Emma only hoped that her voice did not waver as she focused on keeping her face neutral.

 

“And is this your husband?” The officer asked, nodding sharply at Killian.

 

“No.”

 

“How do you know him? Is he on his way to visit your friend as well?” There was a hint of mockery in his tone as he mentioned her friend, and Emma had to swallow down her nerves. She had a story and she was sticking to it.

 

“No. We only met yesterday. We are not together. Not in the sense that you mean.”

 

“What is your hurry, then?”

 

That question threw her. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“These documents were signed only yesterday and you are already on a train to Moscow. As you have only met yesterday, it cannot be because you were waiting on this man.” His eyes flicked briefly to Killian again before returning to her. “Are you not confident that your friend is getting better?”

 

The butterflies in her stomach that had been calmed by her pre rehearsed script began to reawaken at his words. “It is not wise to tempt fate in these matters,” she responded carefully.  

 

“Indeed not,” he agreed lightly, but the sharpness in his gaze didn't waver. He was a cat with a bird clamped firmly between his jaws and he was not about to let go now. “And I suppose that in your rush to see your ‘friend’ you also mistakenly applied for an external passport, when surely an internal one would have sufficed?”

 

Emma felt her tongue go dry. “I was only trying to see my friend.”

 

“It seems odd to me, you see, that someone in such a rush would go through the trouble of getting external papers when an internal passport would have taken far less time,” he pretended to muse out loud, drawing out her fear. “Surely there must be a reason that you chose to delay your trip to visit your sick friend in order to receive external papers.”

 

“Perhaps the officer made a mistake.”

 

“Are you suggesting that the imperial officers are in the habit of making such mistakes?” He tutted.

 

Emma knew better than to grace that question with an answer. It was a trap, if she had ever seen one. Before she could think of something else to say to begin digging herself out of the story she had created for herself, Killian decided to do the worst thing imaginable. He began to talk.  

 

“Sir, I think that there has been some sort of misunderstanding. She is with me.”

 

“Please, do not interfere,” Emma begged, praying that he would take her hint and back down. There was no such luck.  

 

“The lass is with me,” Killian explained, speaking with confidence as though the officer was surely going to understand him. “I invited her into this cabin to accompany me. If there is any issue with that, I will gladly pay the expenses.”

 

“It is not about that,” Emma explained quickly, praying that her answer would silence him. “Please, stay out of this.”

 

“Then what is it about?”

 

“Killian, _stop_.” Her voice was firmer this time, a mix of fear and anger rising in her.

 

The officer’s patience was beginning to wear thin. He gestured to where Killian stood.

 

“Are you certain that this man is simply an acquaintance?”

 

“Yes. We have barely spoken,” she lied sharply, but her tone gave her away. It was a terrible misstep, one that she was sure to regret, but she tried again. “He is a new acquaintance. A new friend.”

 

“A new friend?” The officer smirked, amused.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Understood. Well, since you seem to not like my questions so much, perhaps I should ask your ‘new friend’ instead?”

 

The officer turned toward Killian then, and Emma felt her heart drop into her stomach as she realised her mistake. _No_.

 

“Alright, ‘ _new_ _friend’_ ,” the officer began in heavily accented English. “Who are you? And who,” he pointed a finger towards her, “is she?”

 

It had been a trap. Of course it had been a trap. Killian hadn’t understood a word of their conversation, hadn’t heard a word of her fabricated story and now he would be asked to replicate it. Instead of answering, Killian turned to her, his clear blue eyes meeting hers.

 

_Who is she?_

 

Emma’s mind raced in time with her heart. She had used her cover story throughout every conversation with him, hadn’t she? Over dinner, in the cabin, on the platform. She had been so careful to stick to the life that had been prescribed to her on paper, the life that she had meant to adopt as her own. Sure, she had strayed from the script from time to time, spicing up her stories with very real and very true details from her own life, but she had revealed nothing of her true identity.

 

But he had sussed out so much more, had read her like an open book. Even when she had left his questions unanswered, he had found a way to get around them to find the truth. It had been terrifying and remarkable both at the same time. Killian Jones knew so much more than she had meant to tell him.

 

Worst of all, though, he knew that she had been lying to him.

 

It hurt to admit that truth. She had been lying to him from the start, and though he had sensed it from the beginning, he had let her stay. He had shared stories with her, shared his meal with her, and shared his cabin. There hadn’t been a moment where he hadn’t believed in her, where he hadn’t trusted her, and she had repaid him by treating him with suspicion and invading his privacy. And now she stood before him, begging him with her eyes to lie for her, to help her hide the evidence of a secret she had been too cowardly to share.

 

There was a pregnant pause in which Killian remained silent, and Emma almost thought that he hadn't heard the guard’s question. He was still searching her eyes, his own face unreadable, as he took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.

 

“I am afraid I cannot say.”

 

Emma felt a wave of nausea roll over her as her eyes began to well with tears. Of course he wouldn’t save her. _Couldn’t_ save her. How could he answer a question like that with confidence when she had never told him the truth. She let the sadness seep into her bones, her body going numb, as she half listened to the officer’s outraged reply.

 

“Why not?”

 

 _Because he doesn’t know_ , she answered for him.

 

“Because,” Killian began slowly, his eyes still locked with hers, “I fear the answer could stir some trouble for me. And I do so hate to stir trouble.”

 

“I am an officer of the imperial guard. You _will_ tell me!”

 

“It that case, I suppose I must give you the truth.” He faced the guard then, his expression halfway between bored and cocky, as though he were more annoyed at the inconvenience of having to explain himself at all. A powermove by an experienced businessman.  

 

“She is a hooker.”

 

When the guard’s face turned into one of confusion, Killian clarified. “She is a prostitute.”

 

The roaring laugh of the guard was nearly enough to drown out the frantic beating of her heart. What had just happened? It took a moment, but eventually the blood that had drained from her face returned with a vengeance and her face flushed scarlet. What was he _thinking_? She couldn’t contradict him now. To do so would surely mean swift punishment for both of them.

 

The laughter began to subside, the guard wiping fat tears from his eyes and mumbling _‘prostitutka’_ under his breath as though it was the world’s funniest joke. He eyed her bare feet and she cursed herself for not having put them on when she had had the chance. Her clothes were also in a state that spoke for themselves; as the pair had returned from dinner on shaky terms, neither had been brave enough to ask the other to leave so that they could change. She grabbed her shawl from the bench and threw it over her shoulders, pulling the ends tight to her chest as she crossed her arms in front of her. Killian - who had until that point stood impatiently waiting for the guard to settle down - took the opportunity to speak again.

 

“I am a man who considers his reputation to be of high importance,” Killian began, handing the officer his papers to inspect. “My business in Petrograd detained me for longer than I had wished, and I have picked up some extra - shall we say - _luggage_ to keep me company during the rest of my stay here. My secrecy is an unfortunate necessity, you see. It would not do for others to learn that I associate myself with such people. Especially my wife. I am sure you understand.”

 

“Ah, well if you had said as much before I could have given you my recommendation.” He stalked toward her like a lion circling its prey. “This one seems a bit too disobedient for her own good. I could help you sort her out.”

 

Emma’s eyes - which had been filled with tears of sorrow not long before - heated with anger as she glared at the guard. If the soldier’s attention had not been so intently focused on Emma, perhaps he would have seen the way that Killian’s entire body had stiffened at his words. If it were not for the firearm locked and loaded at the officer’s side, Emma thought Killian would have thrown him to the ground right then and there, Imperial orders be damned.  

 

“I am afraid I am not in the habit of sharing,” Killian managed out, jaw clenched tightly, “and I would rather not be burdened with having to seek new company now.”

 

Despite the venom in the Brit’s voice, the officer’s eyes remained fixed on Emma’s face, the smugness almost too much for her to handle. “Pity.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

The officer did turn at that, his angled eyebrows raised in mock surprise at Killian’s rude dismissal. Emma feared he would arrest Killian on the spot for his indiscretion, but he simply shrugged indifferently and moved back toward the door.

 

Just as it seemed he was about to cross back over the threshold, the officer spun back on his heel. “Oh yes, one last thing. Felix!”

 

Almost instantly, another young officer appeared in the doorway. He was taller, his hair a bit longer, and by the way he appeared to swim in his uniform, he was clearly a newer recruit. Though they shared almost identical looks of malice on their faces, Emma thought the green eyed devil boy was his superior, a theory that was immediately confirmed by the orders that immediately left his mouth.

 

“This man and his _whore,_ ” the officer spat, “seem to have found their own means of entertainment for the journey. Make sure their story checks out.”

 

The man - Felix - disappeared through the doorway without another word.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Emma watched Killian step forward with the clear intent of putting himself between her and the guard. He was stopped mid movement, however, when Peter moved his hand quite purposefully to his gun. A warning.

 

Emma wasn’t sure how long they remained in their little standoff, Emma glaring daggers at the young officer as he watched Killian with interest. Killian, for his part, looked unphased by the added attention, his face returned to the neutral mask he had been sporting before. It was impressive, given that their entire story could fall apart any moment and Killian would be the one caught needlessly in the middle. He knew it too, had understood the risk, and had deliberately leapt in the middle of the firing ring with her. She owed the dark haired man more than she could possibly imagine, and the thought that he might have unwittingly signed his death certificate to help save her made her stomach twist. Emma only hoped that if it came down to it, they would spare him.

 

The hard clunking of his boots announced the junior officer’s presence far before he made it to the little cabin, though, Emma seemed to be the only one to notice.

 

“Peter,” Felix called out tentatively, likely sensing the heightened tension in the room.

 

The summons seemed to draw him from his thoughts, and the officer moved back to where his colleague was waiting in the doorway. His voice was low, but Emma was just able to make out the words. Felix spoke first.

 

“The passengers in the car next door have not seen anything out of the usual. The Jones man knocked on their door shortly after the train departed from Petrograd. It is not clear whether the woman was with him at the time, but I was told the pair left to dine later. A woman down the hall said she saw them holding hands. And...” He stopped as though he was afraid to deliver news that he found terribly uncomfortable.

 

“And what, Felix?” Peter asked, exasperated.

 

“They, uh, well, they reported hearing sounds from this cabin,” Felix continued. “ _Noises_.”

 

“Noises?” Peter clarified, staring down the junior officer. The man simply blushed and turned his gaze to his boots. The look of disgust on his superior’s face indicated he had understood his meaning.

 

All of a sudden there were sounds heavy boots and shouts from the platform outside. Felix peered out of the doorway as his name was called out by voice sounding from the hallway. He gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement before leaning back into the cabin.

 

“The rest have finished their searches. It is time to leave.”

 

There was no response, the soldier seeming to be locked in an intense staring contest with Killian. The shouts outside became louder and Emma thought she could hear the distinct sound of a metal ladder being hoisted up. The train was getting ready to depart.

 

Felix had clearly heard it too and was shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

 

“We have to go, Peter.”

 

There was another slight pause, but eventually the scowling officer let out an annoyed huff and gave a single, affirming nod. Emma felt relief wash through her, and it was only dimmed somewhat by the soldier’s parting words.

 

“Well, it seems that everything is in order after all,” he concluded, with more smugness than sincerity. The young man clearly did not care for the stress and emotional carnage he was leaving behind in his wake. He shoved the handful of papers into Killian’s outstretched hand, Emma’s documents buried somewhere at the bottom of the pile.

 

“Good evening. And _Gospodin_ Jones? Find a prettier prostitute next time.”

 

Without another word, the two soldiers disappeared from the cabin, their shadows merging back into the darkness of the hallway.  

 

The moment they were gone, Emma slid the door shut and fastened the latch. Her hands were shaking - had they ever stopped trembling since she had been awoken? - and she could feel her breaths coming in shallow pants.  Even after the footsteps had long since faded away, she only let go of the door handle when she felt the sudden jerk of the train moving again.

 

 _They had done it_.

 

_Had they done it?_

 

Fear paralyzed her anew as she considered what had just happened. What if it was another ruse? The guard - Peter - had had her in his jaws, teeth clamped tight, and he had… let her go without fuss? It was too easy. It had to be another trap.

 

She had to leave at the next stop, that was a certainty, but first and foremost, she had to get as far away from Killian Jones as possible. He had risked so much and she was not about to bring him down with her. No, the safest place for him to be was as far away as he could get from her.

 

Emma picked up her coat and began tugging it over her shoulders. She struggled for a moment, forgetting that she had her shawl wrapped around her shoulders, but she quickly tossed it off and threw it to the side.

 

“Are you leaving?” Killian’s surprised voice sounded behind her. Of course he wouldn’t expect her to leave. He hadn’t asked her to leave any other time, so why would he now? Besides, Emma realised that she had no idea of what Killian had made of the scene that had unfolded before him. For all he knew, she was an adulterous wife running from her husband, or at worse, a petty criminal. Would he have any sympathy for her if he knew where her allegiance lay? Would he have bothered to intervene if he had known?

 

“You should not have done that,” she croaked out, her voice shaking from the multitude of emotions rushing through her. _Anger, pity, fear, regret._ “You do not understand what you just did.”

 

“What? Saved your life?”

 

She pulled her hat over her head and began pulling her long gloves up over her wrists. Why could he not understand that she was doing this for both of their sakes? She didn’t want to spend their last moment together fighting.

 

To her surprise, he stood up immediately, a hand shooting out to rest on hers as she reached for her bag.

 

“Wait, no! Please, I apologize. Please, just… stay?”

 

The desperation in his voice broke her heart. Somehow, after all he had done for her, he had felt the need to apologize to her. It felt wrong.

 

“Please.”

 

Blue eyes met hers then and she paused. There was fear swirling there, almost certainly, but it wasn’t concern for his own safety. It was fear for _hers_. Whatever bond they had established between them over the past few hours had meant something, and he seemed genuinely afraid at the prospect of her being in danger. The sincerity in his voice was touching, and it was almost enough to make her waver in her resolve. Almost.

 

“I have to go,” she pleaded, her own voice starting to choke up.

 

“You do not. You can stay.”

 

Fresh tears welled in her eyes, blurring his face in her vision. “I cannot. They will surely send more guards. They will be waiting for me at the platform.”

 

“They will not.”

 

“How can you be so certain?” She nearly yelled back. “You do not even know what I have done! You do not even know me!”

 

She was starting to sound hysterical now, she knew that, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. All of the stress that she had been keeping inside seemed to be pouring out of her, and she couldn’t find it within herself to plug it back up.

 

He saw all of this, she was sure, but instead of backing down he took a step toward her, his hand moving to rest higher on her elbow.  

 

“Because if they had wanted to take you tonight they would have. Whatever you have done - _whoever you are_ \- your secret seems to be safe. At least for tonight.”

 

Could it be true? Was she safe?

 

“No,” she shook her head. “It is almost certainly a trick.”

 

“Why would they need to trick you, love?” He reasoned, his voice calmer than she deserved. “They could have taken you, but they did not. Running would only make you look guilty now.”

 

Her breathing began to slow, the ache in her chest loosening a bit. He was right, of course. They had had her, they had seen her papers and she had passed their test.

 

_Because of him._

 

The man in front of her had lied through his teeth, spun a story so shallow - _so believable_ \- that they hadn’t looked any further. She owed him her freedom, and perhaps even her life. It was strange that as everything around her seemed to tremble and shake, the train speeding through the countryside and her nerves frayed within an inch of insanity, that he could be so calm. It was as if she were caught in the middle of a raging storm, but suddenly there was a lighthouse to guide her back. She latched onto it, letting his softness and surety bring her back down.  

 

“Now, please,” he begged, his voice lower. “Sit?”

 

And so she did.

 

It was an awkward few moments as she stripped off her hat and gloves in silence. She couldn’t face him yet; she had too many thoughts swirling through her mind and she was sure that if she looked at him now, he would see all of them. When everything was back in its place, she clasped her hands in front of her and finally dared to look up. He was watching her, just as she had thought, but it was anyone’s guess as to what he was thinking.

 

He finally sighed, his right hand coming up to massage his left forearm. When he finally spoke his voice was more gentle than it had been all night.

 

“My name is Killian Jones,” he started. “I am a British citizen, and I was raised by my brother, Liam. He died in a naval accident nine years ago. Contrary to what you heard me say, I have never been married. I have a scar on my-”

 

She couldn’t help but cut him off, her confusion getting the best of her. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

 

“Because I want you to see everything,” he explained, scooting to the edge of his seat to better catch her eye. His eyes were impossibly blue. “I want you to see that you _can_ trust me. You have good instincts, so use them. Am I a liar?”

 

Emma blinked in shock. How could he possibly know about her superpower? Ruby had often joked that that was what it was; a superpower. Emma had always brushed off the comment, saying that she had just been lucky every time her gut had infallibly led her in the right direction. But superpower aside, Killian was right. Her gut never seemed to be wrong.

 

And her gut was telling her to trust Killian Jones.

 

He had saved her, at his own peril, no less. After everything he had done for her, he deserved _something_. It was only a shame that the one thing he wanted to ask for would be the one thing that would certainly get him killed. It wasn’t fair.  

 

“You have risked your life for me once already tonight,” she sighed. “I do not want to ask you to risk it again for me now. And once you know this, I am not certain I can protect you from whatever happens next.”

 

Killian’s face betrayed nothing as he listened to her warning, his features a stony mask. The only sign of nerves she could see was the slight bob of his adam's apple as he gulped. _Good_ , she thought, _he should be nervous_. But there was a certainty in his eyes as he spoke next, his voice strong and steady.

 

“Who are you really?”

 

As he wished. Inhaling a deep breath to steady herself, Emma sat down and took the biggest leap of faith she had ever been asked to make.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is officially the end of Act I! Now, on to Act II...  
> Special thanks to HelloTragic as always for keeping me motivated! 
> 
>  
> 
> Gospodin = 'Mr.'


	9. Chapter 9

_ 16 km South of Tver; March 15th, 1917. 6:22am. _

 

Whatever explanation Killian had expected to leave her mouth, it was not that.

 

_ A palace maid. _

 

It was absurd, it had to be. But then again, it explained everything. The strict propriety, her proficiency for languages, the lack of wonder at even the most lavish of delicacies. Although it was difficult for him to imagine the gorgeous blond in front of him as a wallflower in a room full of elites, it just  _ made sense _ .

 

When Emma had finished her tale, she had sat back and waited, stone still as though she was waiting for a flurry of questions or, worse, accusations. But there was only one fundamental fact that didn’t seem to add up in Killian’s mind.

 

“Why are you going to Moscow, then?” He asked, rubbing the scruff of his cheek with one hand. “The British Consul is in Petrograd.”

 

“It is also now the seat of the provisional government. The Tsar has abdicated and I am certain that there will be spies everywhere now. No, we cannot meet there. It is too dangerous.”

 

“But surely the new government would allow you to leave Russia,” he reasoned. With the Tsar’s sudden abdication and the by-proxy abdication of the young tsarevich, Killian was sure that there would be a mad scramble for power. The opposition party would surely want to reserve a foothold for themselves and declare themselves the leaders of the new government, but they would be hard pressed to stave off the growing disquiet by the Bolsheviks. Surely they would be too busy reining in the spoils to care much about the goings and comings of the minor players. 

 

Emma’s face turned sour, her nose crinkling in disgust. 

 

“Alexander Kerensky has no love for the Imperial family. I do not believe he will protect us. He has no power, no support from the people. They will be too busy running around with their heads cut off, trying to fulfill the wishes of the people. Kerensky knows that he will need their support. And I fear they will do anything to get it, even if it means arresting the entire palace.”  

 

“You have met Kerensky?” The former vice-chairman of the Petrograd Soviets and newly elected Minister of Justice may not have been the leader of the opposition, but he was still a well respected player within the provisional government. Jefferson had said as much in one the letters he had penned shortly after the February riots that had nearly torn Petrograd apart. 

 

“Yes. Well, not really,” she admitted. “I saw him on occasion when he came to visit the palace. He twists words and he spreads despicable lies about the Tsar and his family. They praise him because he dares call the imperial ministers ‘cowards’ to their faces. I believe that he is a silver tongued lawyer who enjoys inciting hatred against the monarchy, nothing more.” 

 

“Duly noted. I suppose we will need your expertise if we are to get you to Moscow safely.” 

 

“You believe me, then?” She sounded surprised. 

 

“Of course,” he shrugged. “I cannot imagine anyone feigning to be an Imperial  _ supporter _ in these times. A a socialist or even a Bolshevik, perhaps, but not an Imperialist.” 

 

Emma’s relief was nearly palpable. She let out a long breath and sank back into the cushions of her seat. He hadn’t realized how much her secret must have been weighing on her. Even with the late hour she appeared less exhausted, the deeps lines on her face lessening.

 

“What will we do now?” She asked, whether to herself or to him, he did not know. 

 

“I suggest we proceed as normal. I will help you, you will help me. I am sure that if we work together we will make it to Moscow relatively unscathed.” 

 

She nodded in agreement. Stick to the plan.

 

“But,” he added quickly, “No more lies, if you will. I would very much appreciate knowing exact what I am dealing with going forward.”        

 

She hesitated for a moment before nodding again. Killian was not naive enough to think that he had felled her walls with that promise, but he hoped that even if she was still reluctant to share her story with him, the parts she chose to share would be true.  _ At least he had that, _ Killian thought. 

 

He watched her move her slender fingers closer to the lamp, seeking out the warmth there. The open train doors had let all of the accumulated heat escape into the night, and the train car felt frigid in the morning air that had snuck in. She had redressed into her coat after the officers had left, but the chill appeared to be bothering her still. If he hadn’t been so confident that she would refuse his offer, he would have handed over his own coat while she warmed.   

 

“Let us start with your name, perhaps,” he suggested, hoping to learn more about the company he was keeping. “That was a lie as well, I take it?” 

 

“Only partially,” she confessed. ‘Emma’ is not a lie, but I am afraid I was not as truthful about my last name.” 

 

Killian nodded, understanding. He knew the necessity for the switch, and though he had had doubts about her identity even early on, he couldn’t deny that it hurt to have his suspicions confirmed. A lie was a lie, any way you sliced it. 

 

“What is it really?” He asked, feeling the urge to know. 

 

“Lebedeva.” 

 

“Lay-bay-day-va?” 

 

A small, affectionate grin grew on her face at his mispronunciation.  

 

“No,  _ Lyeh-byeh-dyeh-va _ .”

 

“Leh-beh-deh-va?” 

 

For as much as he tried, the syllables simply did not roll off of his tongue in the graceful ways hers did. Emma laughed, a beautiful light sound that filled his heart with warmth. 

 

“You are close enough, I suppose.” 

 

“I apologize,” he chuckled. “It is a beautiful name.” 

 

“Thank you. It was my mother’s.” 

 

He raised an eyebrow at her, remembering the story she had told him about her father’s name. Emma laughed.

 

“The story I told you about my father was true - well, at least in part. His last name  _ is _ Nolan, but my mother was adamant than any child of her’s would have a strong Russian last name, like her own. It was not traditional, but come to think of it, they never were ones to follow tradition.”  

 

“Does it mean something?“ He watched her eyebrows rise in surprise and felt his hand move automatically to scratch behind his ear. “I - er - was told that sometimes Russian surnames have meaning.”

 

She looked impressed. “Very knowledgeable of you. And yes, it does. It comes from the word  _ Lebed _ , meaning ‘swan’.”

 

Killian couldn’t help the affectionate smile that grew on his face.  _ Swan. _ “Quite fitting, I believe.”  

 

Emma blushed at the compliment. It astounded him how a woman who could stand toe to toe with a Russian Imperial officer could become so flustered at the barest of compliments. 

 

He changed the topic to ease her embarrassment. 

 

“Who were the guards looking for, if not you?” 

 

“I do not know,” she admitted with a frustrated sigh. “The Bolsheviks have been growing in number. It could be any one of the  _ insurgents _ .” She spat out the word, disdain clear in her voice. 

 

“I suppose I should not be surprised at your dislike for them.” Killian bowed his head slightly as he considered his next words. “From what I have seen, perhaps a bit of insurgency is called for. Perhaps it is time for a change in Russia.”

 

“I assure you, Killian Jones. No good will come of this.”  

 

“ _ Killian _ ,” he reminded her. “And the Tsar must have thought so, or else he would not have stepped down.” 

 

Emma’s expression suddenly went dark. “The Bolsheviks are  _ terrorists _ ! They thrive off of bloodshed and chaos. That is what Lenin wants with his slanderous writings. He does not speak for true Russians, he only speaks for himself.”

 

“The people seem to think that he does speak for them.” 

 

“ _ My _ people,” she stressed, “are being fooled. They are being led by the nose into a war that will only bring ruin to us all. You cannot possibly think that this coming war is justified.” 

 

“Some wars are fought by brave men who only want what is right for themselves and their families. I believe that is quite honourable.”  

 

“Why are you not out there fighting for your country?” She asked then, accusation and venom lacing her tone. “Your own country is at war with the German empire. Is that not a  _ noble _ battle as well?” 

 

Killian felt all of the blood drain from his face. She was encroaching dangerously close to lines that he did not wish to cross, for both of their sakes.  

 

“I cannot.”    
  


“And why not?” She pressed, sensing an opening. “Are you afraid of what might happen to your wealth if you perish? Or is it simply that you do not believe it is your  _ business _ what happens to those that do not line your pocket with money?” 

 

Her anger was only growing, her eyes flashing. He wanted to be upset at the quick judgement that she had made of him and the scathing review she had made of his character, but all he felt was shame. It was the same sorrow that arose every time he was confronted with a reminder of his failures. She couldn’t have known, and as it appeared to be a night of revelations, he began to roll up his sleeve.

 

He heard Emma’s gasp before he had entirely removed the leather black glove from the wooden hand that protruded from where his left wrist should have been. 

 

He did not need to see her face to sense her shock, her entire body going tense across from him, whether in disgust or fear he did not know. Neither were particularly appealing thoughts. 

 

When he did meet her eyes, he was not surprised to see shame there as well. Any moment now she would awaken from her shock and the apologies would begin, just as they always did when people learned to truth. Killian had never quite been able to discern the reason for the apologies - it wasn't as though they had cut it off themselves - but the words did seem to bring them a certain kind of comfort so he had gracefully accepted them. The other person would always settle after that, content and proud at themselves for being so accepting of someone they considered damaged and beneath them. The irony was almost laughable.

 

“I am truly sorry.”

 

Killian sighed. And so it began. 

 

“No need, love, you did not know.”

 

Emma shook her head. “No, I lost my temper with you and I questioned your honour. You saved me and I…” She trailed off, frustration and embarrassment colouring her face. 

 

“Yes, I suppose it was bad form,” he shrugged, hoping to put the poor girl out of her misery. “I will not hold it against you, however.”

 

He rolled his sleeve back down to cover the edge of the wooden hand, yanking the leather glove back over the stiff fingers. It wasn’t that he was particularly ashamed of his missing limb, but the cover did held stave off unwanted questions and pitying looks. 

 

The leather straps seemed to become more stiff as he let his mind wander to that day. He moved his right hand over where the thickest strap dug uncomfortably into his tricep, massaging soothing circles over the spot. 

 

“Does it hurt terribly?” Her voice was still quiet, her own rudeness not yet forgotten. 

 

He frowned, realizing that she must have caught a glimpse of the pain medicine in his bag. Though it was in the past and he had forgiven her for her snooping, Killian wished again in that moment that she had let it be. 

 

“The wound, not so much. The doctors say the pain from that cannot be real, that it is too old. However the brace is an entirely different matter.” 

 

Emma nodded her head as though she understood. She didn’t ask further about the brace or his injury, for which he was grateful, but then again it was likely that she simply had no idea what to say. 

 

They sat in companionable silence as he rubbed his brace, the rough leather softening under the warmth of his worn and calloused fingers. Though he hadn’t performed any manual labour for years now, the battered skin had never seemed to fully heal. At this point, he doubted they ever would. 

 

It was strange to think that Emma’s life had been so different from his own. The life she was accustomed was one of grandeur and elegance, yet she shared the same callouses and marks of hard word as he did. Although he knew very little about her childhood, she appeared to have worked at the palace for many years now, if her wealth of knowledge was any indication. He wondered what it would have been like, to live within the inner circle of royalty without ever having to don a title or address a nation. To be privy to secrets that the outside world would never get to know and to be a wallflower in a room in which the future of a nation could be decided. 

 

Killian thought of Buckingham Palace back home, from which his own King had stood and addressed the Mall. Was there an Emma standing behind that family as well? One with fair hair and eyes the colour of sea glass? Did she fear for her safety every time a German plane flew overhead? Killian had never looked upon the Royal family with any much favour, but for once he felt a pang of sorrow for the brave persons who stood at their side. They would continue to scrub, polish, and hold their heads high, even as they handed telegraphs detailing death and destruction to their masters. 

 

Even without her ties to the Imperial family, the coming revolution would not be kind to those that opposed the change, and Killian couldn’t deny that he feared for Emma’s safety. She would not go down without a fight - he could see that already. He even admired it. But it did not change the fact that her best chance was the exit papers, to reach a safe haven in Britain. King George V was a reasonable ruler, albeit a tough man. He would never leave his kin to suffer at the hands of the revolutionists. Still, Killian Jones did not like to leave things to chance, and the risk unnerved him. 

 

He sighed. It was late - or, very early, rather - and Killian could feel the weight of the day on him now. They had met, fought, nearly been arrested by Imperial Officers, and shared secret aliases all since the day had begun, and he was drained. He expected that Emma felt it as well, the dark circles under her eyes resembling bruises in the harsh light of the lamp. 

 

“You should sleep.” 

 

“After everything that has transpired tonight, I do not believe I will be able to sleep for a week,” she admitted halfheartedly. “Besides, there is always the chance that the guards will change their mind, or that they will have the papers for my arrest awaiting at the next station. I think I ought to stay up for that.” 

 

Of course she would be wary of that, and despite his own optimism that the guards had bought their story, Killian was still admittedly hesitant to drift off to sleep when there remained so much that could still go wrong. 

 

“How about we make a deal, then?” 

 

“Another?” She asked, nearly groaning. 

 

“Humour me,” he urged, shrugging. “I propose we take shifts. I will take the first watch, and in a few hours I will wake you and I will rest. How does that sound?” 

 

“Well,” she started slowly, something teasing about her tone. “I suppose I could take your proposal into consideration. Do you not have any varenye for me this time?” 

 

Killian laughed, pleased that - at least for the moment - she did not appear to be turning down his offer. “I am afraid I am clean out. Perhaps tomorrow?” 

 

Emma pretended to consider it, before nodding her head. “Agreed.” 

 

The pair moved back into their respective places, as though the past few hours had never happened. Emma offered to leave the lamp burning so as to give him some light by which to read, but he declined. He could tell by the way the blond nearly flinched at every jitter of the train that she was unaccustomed to travelling and that she would likely rest better without the light. He watched as she removed her shoes once more, her long legs curling under her long skirt as she braced herself against the window, her shawl draped over her shoulders. 

 

She settled into her makeshift nest, the last of the tension leaving her body as she laid her head against the side. They made eye contact for only a moment, and Killian almost thought she was about to say something. But a moment later they were closed, and Killian reached forward to dim the lamp. The cabin immediately plunged into darkness, Emma’s silhouette disappearing into the shadows around them. It was almost unnerving to be so close, yet feel so far away from her. But the door to the small cabin was locked tight, and the gradual heaviness of her soft breathing as she fell deeper into sleep let him know that she was still with him. That she was safe. And so Killian tugged his jacket further around him and settled in for the first watch of the night. 

 

He let his mind wander over Emma’s story as he sat in the pitch darkness, trying to come to terms with everything she had told him. He had to admit that he found himself almost relieved at her confession. Not only because Emma appeared to be guilty only by association with unfavourable royalty - although, admittedly, he was not entirely sure what his reaction would have been if she had turned out to be a thief or a murderess -  but because with it came a further understanding of his own intentions. It had been difficult to reconcile his feelings for her after their dinner together. He had been left confused, frazzled, and torn, unable to determine why he seemed so drawn to her. But he it understood now. 

 

_ It was a sign.  _

 

It had to be. 

 

He knew that he had been rubbing at his tattoo on and off ever since she had told him the truth, but he could sense it. He could feel her presence in the air around him, in the ink of his tattoo. 

 

_ Milah _ .

 

He smiled to himself. Of course she would be watching over him. She always would be, no matter how far he strayed. He could almost see her smile, remember the exact shade her eyes had appeared in the sunlight of their small home.  _ Stop staring, my love. You will wear out your eyes, _ Milah had teased. But he hadn’t been able to stop, and instead he had pounced, placing a kiss to her cheek as she had pretended to bat him away.  _ You are very lucky that you are as handsome as you are, Mr. Jones, or else a lady might take offence to such sneaky maneuvers.  _ But she had returned his kisses with equal passion and they had fallen into bed together not long after that.  _ Yes, he had been very lucky.  _ Milah had always seen the best in him, had always believed in him even when he hadn't been able to. 

 

It only made sense for her to be with him now, during a time of crisis. Milah had found a lost soul, so much like his own had been when she had found him all those years ago, and had guided him to her. That was what the attraction had been, the unwavering belief that he needed to find the blond haired angel. It was never romantic feelings, as such, it was a message, clear as day.  

 

_ Perhaps he could save this one.  _

 

And he would. By God, he would, if it was the last thing he would ever do. Killian Jones had let so very many people down in his life, and now he was being given the opportunity to set things right. He could never fully undo every mistake he had made, but perhaps he could do enough. The nerves jittered underneath his skin and he was nearly giddy at the thought of it.  _ Repentance _ . He would make sure she made her meeting with whatever mysterious man she was meant to meet and would not leave her side until she was safely with her papers. 

 

He wanted to burst he felt so relieved. He wanted to tell her everything in that moment, let her share in his epiphany, but he knew that he couldn’t. Emma would surely be spooked at the mere notion that this was anything other than a business transaction, just as she had any other occasion that he had broken boundaries. But it mattered not.  _ He _ knew, and Killian Jones was in it for the long haul. Emma would be a challenge, he was sure, but he could be patient. 

 

Just as Milah had been patient with him. 

 

Feeling satisfied with his renewed sense of purpose, he readjusted himself on the creaky leather seat and waited for the sun to rise. 

 

“Sleep well, Miss Swan.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Learning more and more about our little duo each and every chapter! Sorry if this chapter is a bit slower than the last one, but it was a necessary evil for what is to come. HelloTragic basically supervised and helped me overcome my struggle with the chapter so massive kudos to her on this one! 
> 
> Speaking of which, have you guys checked out the CSBB fics yet? Lots of great works up this year! If you haven't already, I encourage you all to check out 'Nuuk'. HelloTragic and I spent months writing and beta'ing this fic and I could not be more proud to have worked on it with her. If you love some great CS moments (which, let's admit, we all do) then give it a try! It updates twice a week and is going to be a helluva ride!


	10. Chapter 10

_ Redkino Station; March 15th, 1917. 8:03am.  _

 

_ Miss Swan? _

 

The words seemed to echo through her sleep addled brain.  _ Who was ‘Miss Swan’? _ She shrugged it off, still clinging to the lingering remnants of a good dream. Something about ocean blue irises and dark hair. A stubbled jaw line and a slight scar on one cheek, perhaps too? She scrunched her eyes shut tighter and tried to remember. The image had shattered at the intrusion and her mind frantically grasped at the shards, hoping to reassemble the pieces. She had just about managed to remember something about a roguish smile when the voice came again. 

 

_ Swan? _

 

Why couldn’t the voice just leave her alone? She was exhausted. After everything that had happened, all she wanted to do was rest, to snuggle into the warmth of the body that was cozied up next to her. Ah yes, that was what the dream had been. She knew it was a dream, but the light brush of fingertips across her cheek felt as real as anything, as did the light breath that puffed against her hair. She let out a deep sigh. Why couldn’t they just let her rest? 

 

_ Emma! _

 

That was enough to breach the surface and she awoke with a gasp, her eyes flying open wide in surprise. The man from her dream - whose limbs Emma could have sworn had been tangled with hers only moments before - was inches away from her face, his face filled with worry as he hovered over her. Emma instinctively recoiled back further into the seat to put some distance between them, which Killian copied, leaning away from her. 

 

“My apologies, lass,” he started, his voice quieter that it had been in the dream. “I did not want to wake you, but I thought you should know that we have stopped.” 

 

Emma blinked, trying to focus. 

 

_ Stopped? Again?  _

 

“Why?” 

 

Killian looked almost embarrassed, a hand rising to scratch behind one ear. “I am afraid I cannot understand the attendant’s instructions. I would not have awoken you otherwise.”  

 

Emma nodded once, her brain catching up to the situation. She ran a hand across her face to brush away any sleep or - God forbid - drool that might be there, before slipping into her shoes. Other than a quick run through with her fingers, there was very little she could do about the knots that had accumulated in her hair. That would have to wait. She pulled on her coat and hat as Killian did the same, leaving her possessions stashed away in the same hiding spot they had been in when they had gone for dinner. Killian hadn’t mentioned seeing any soldiers, but they both took their papers, just in case. 

 

They made their way into the narrow corridor, Killian turning to shut the cabin door tightly behind them. The entrance at the end of the carriage was open, letting in small flurries of snow and the sounds of mixed chatter from the platform. Killian took her hand as she descended down the slick metal steps to the platform. Her balance wavered for a moment on the bottom step, but a second later she felt the soft crunch of snow beneath her feet. 

 

There was a large group of passengers already waiting on the platform, most wrapped in heavy coats and scarves, and all demanding answers from the heavy set attendant standing in the middle of the masses. The attendant, for his part, appeared exhausted as he repeated the same announcement in a booming voice that was still barely audible over the crowd. 

 

A fallen tree on the tracks up ahead, blown down by the strong winds that had swept through in the night. A half hour at most, the attendant promised, his bushy mustache twitching as he spoke, though he kept looking anxiously down the platform as if he were looking for reassurance that the workers that had been sent were on task. Emma sighed and relayed the message to Killian. The businessman looked relieved at the words and it occurred to Emma that he might have also been anxious about the reason for the delay. 

 

‘I am afraid there is no way to know how long we will be stalled here,” Emma finished, sighing. 

 

Her companion only hummed, not appearing to be particularly concerned that they were effectively stuck in the middle of tracks, with no discernable time frame for departure.  

 

“Perhaps a stroll, then,” Killian suggested, glancing around to the platform around them. “To stretch our legs.” 

 

Emma looked around as well. Some passengers had given up on waiting for updates on the delay and had begun making their way through the station doors to wait it out. The station was small, consisting only of a pale blue structure with three archways, a flat peaked roof that seemed barely strong enough to support the weight of the heavy snow covering it, and a rather modest yellow sign announcing in blocky letters their arrival at ‘Redkino’. Despite the town’s obviously small size and lack of any visible landmarks, the name seemed vaguely familiar. Emma thought fleetingly that she had heard of a fire devastating the area years prior, but she couldn’t be sure. 

 

She turned her attention back to Killian, who was still waiting patiently for her answer. The thought of being cooped up in the cabin when they were not moving was not entirely appealing, especially when they still had another few hours left of actual travel time until they reached Moscow. Having to sit for that much longer would surely have her tearing at the walls by the end. Besides, being outside meant that she would receive word immediately if the plans were to change. 

 

Or if guards were to arrive. 

 

“Alright.” 

 

Killian let her lead the way, turning his collar up against the wind and pulling his cap lower on his head. It was mid morning, and though the sun was well above the horizon, the sunshine was dimmed behind the heavy layer of cloud and snow, leaving a sharp bite in the air. Granny had been right; despite the heavier garments, the cold was already seeping through her shawl and coat. Her toes were curling in her shoes and she wanted to curse her forgetfulness for leaving her gloves in her bag. She dragged the edges of her sleeve over her fingers and crossed her arms tightly to her chest. 

 

It was too much to ask that her companion not notice.

 

“Are you cold?” Killian asked.

 

“No,” she replied, knowing full well that she was being stubborn. 

 

“Here.” 

 

He stopped and pulled off his black leather gloves using his teeth. 

 

“I cannot take your gloves,” Emma protested immediately. “You need them.” 

 

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I only need one,” he reminded her, holding up his wooden hand. 

 

Fair point. Was she really so ridiculous as to refuse the gloves of a man who hadn’t need of one? It was a generous offer and as she was nearly freezing in her boots, the rational - and slightly less stubborn- portion of her brain won out. 

 

Emma reached out and took the gloves from his outstretched hand. They were expensive, their quality reflected in the buttery feel of the goat skin. They were unlined and far too big, but Emma supposed she couldn’t be too disappointed given that he had graciously offered up his gloves to her in the first place. The heat from the previous owner lingered in the right hand glove, and she flexed her fingers into it, hoping to retain some of it. 

 

“Better?”

 

Emma nodded. “Much. Thank you.” 

 

He smiled and offered her his arm, shoving his ungloved hand into a pocket. She took it gratefully, treasuring the warmth that radiated where their arms met. Killian set the pace, and together they began their slow walk down the long platform. 

 

Although Emma was sure that Killian was likely as exhausted as she was, but the brisk morning air seemed to slowly be reviving the pair. Being a maid for the Tsarina, Emma had not been allowed to go on such strolls with any men from the palace, the Tsarina preferring to keep her ladies separate from the male staff. The rule had been largely obeyed over the years, but even the monarch herself was unable to be everywhere at once to enforce it. Being in public, and strolling along now with Killian Jones - a wealthy businessman, of all things - made Emma feel oddly rebellious. Ruby would have been proud of her, she thought. It was satisfying, knowing that if a few heads turned to gawk at them, it was surely due to the handsome gentleman who had her arm.  

 

“You carry yourself as a true gentleman, Killian,” she noted, making sure to use his first name alone. 

 

Killian’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Was that a compliment I heard, Miss Swan?”

 

Of course she would give him a rope and he would immediately hang himself with it. 

 

“Yes. Now do not let it go to your head,” she chastised.  

 

“You wound me, love.”

 

“Good,” she teased. “It might help to ease some of your ego.” 

 

“Are you suggesting that I have an inflated ego?” He asked, feigning offense. 

 

“You  _ are _ the man who awarded himself a prostitute in his cover story,” she pointed out. The lie hadn’t bothered her at the time - not really - but now that the adrenaline had worn away, the ease with which the story had come to him had raised questions for her.  

 

Killian’s smirk only widened. “Did I offend you with that quick thinking?”

 

Emma rolled her eyes. “I am sure you could have thought of something else.” 

 

“Ah, but would it have been as convincing?” 

 

“ _ What are you implying _ ?” 

 

“Fear not, Miss Swan,” he chuckled. “I am not suggesting anything. You are far too cruel to be a prostitute anyhow.” 

 

“Acquainted with many prostitutes then, are you?” Emma grumbled. If she were honest, she didn't truly believe he was the type of man who would ever need to pay a woman to spend the night with him, but the words had come out all the same. For some reason, she needed to hear him say it.

 

“Not entirely, no,” Killian answered hesitantly. “I assure you that I am a loyal husband.” 

 

Emma nearly scoffed. “You are not married. Have you forgotten? I have read your documents.” 

 

She glanced up at him then and was surprised to see that the happiness had faded from his expression. He seemed almost sad. 

 

“Perhaps not. But I have been engaged, and I would like to think that I would have made a fair and loving husband.” 

 

Emma nearly lost her footing. “You were engaged?” 

 

Killian almost regained his smile at her incredulous expression. Almost. 

 

“Does that surprise you?” 

 

Emma looked at him then - really looked - as she pondered his question. 

 

“No,” she admitted slowly. “I suppose that it does not surprise me.” 

 

Truthfully, it wasn’t difficult to imagine the man in front of her as a husband. He was kind, honourable, and he had already proved himself to be loyal to an almost ridiculous extent. And that was all on top of his handsome appearance and clear abundance of wealth. Men such as him were rare - if not impossible - to find and he surely would have had his pick of any woman he fancied. Any woman would be lucky to have him by her side, Emma thought. 

 

But to think that he had already found someone he had cared for enough to propose had her stomach fluttering in ways that she didn’t quite understand. It was also no hard guess as to the identity of his lost love - Killian was a man who quite literally wore his heart on his sleeve. Perhaps it was time to learn more about the mysterious woman who had laid claim to Killian’s right arm. 

 

“It was Milah, was it not?” Emma prompted, trying to sound casual. It didn’t work, and she immediately felt Killian stiffen beside her.

 

“You are very perceptive, aren’t you?”  

 

A partial answer, but not what Emma had wanted. She pressed on, not willing to let the elephant that had been in the room for far too long to settle itself back between them. It was time. 

 

“Is she…?” 

 

“She died a long time ago,” he answered hurriedly, as though he were ripping off a bandage by getting the words out. “Smallpox.” 

 

Emma had had a feeling that the mysterious woman had died, but hearing the truth confirmed for her did her no favours. She only barely repressed a shiver as she recalled the photographs that Dr. Whale had kept in his diary of those that had contracted the disease. The image of a young child covered in the tell-tale rash had haunted her dreams for weeks afterwards. It had been the last time that Emma had sat with the royal doctor during his studies. There were some things that she just didn’t have the stomach for. Emma was only grateful that Killian’s memories of his fiance did not seem tainted by the brutal illness. 

 

“Smallpox is a terrible disease.” 

 

“Indeed,” Killian agreed sadly. ”They say that those who survive the disease are left with horrible scars, but I cannot imagine my Milah as anything other than beautiful.” 

 

It must have been a strong gust of wind that had Emma cringing at the words. Of course she would have been beautiful. It only made sense for a man as handsome as him to be with someone beautiful. Was that not what beautiful people did? Marry other beautiful people and have beautiful children and live beautiful lives? 

 

Yes, it must have been the chill of the wind that had her clenching her teeth. 

 

“How long was your engagement?” 

 

Killian let out a breath as he thought, the warm air turning into a cloud of white against the hazy sky. 

 

“I met her when I was seventeen, and we saw each other for just over two years. Milah was older, but I knew that she was the one from the very beginning. She was gorgeous and strong, and I was head over heels in love with her.” 

 

Emma nodded. Young love was a powerful thing. “You miss her,” she stated simply. It wasn’t a question.  

 

He gave a sad smile, one too many for the early morning. 

 

“All the time.” 

 

_ All the time _ . The more Emma thought about it, the more everything began to make sense. For every gentle touch and flirtatious smile he gave, there was always a look of wariness and uncertainty that followed. Emma wasn’t even sure if he was aware that he did it, but it was there all the same, reminding her that his mind was elsewhere. That in those moments, he was with someone else. She was sure now that his mind had gone to her in the moment before their near kiss. 

 

_ Just my luck to be infatuated with a man whose heart is already somewhere else.  _

 

Emma immediately banished the thought. She was not competing with anyone, let alone a dead woman. The mere suggestion of it made her flush with guilt. Killian had revealed a moment of sadness and turmoil in his life, and here she stood feeling  _ jealous _ , of all things. No, not jealous. Something else. It had to be. 

 

She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she almost didn’t notice when Killian began to speak again. 

 

“Although some days it does not feel as though she has gone far,” he continued. “She… gives me advice, I believe. Sends me messages that I am meant to decipher.” 

 

Emma furrowed her brow, confused. “What sort of messages?” 

 

“It could be anything,” he shrugged. “They are not always obvious, but I believe that they are there all the same.” He paused, thinking. “She was a lot like you are, in that way, I think.” 

 

“How do you mean?” Emma failed to keep the surprise from her voice.  _ Like her? _

 

“Stubborn, mostly.” He attempted a smile, but it lacked warmth and faded quickly. “She was secretive, too. Milah always played things so close to the chest and it used to drive me mad, trying to figure her out. At the beginning, she never even told me that she was sick.” 

 

“That sounds rather reckless. You could have become infected.” 

 

Another wry smile crossed his features. “She was hoping it was morning sickness.”

 

“Oh.” Emma’s stomach twisted in knots.  _ Of course. _ “Was she..?” 

 

“No,” Killian shook his head. “She had gone to see a physician to check. It was only after they told her of the contagion that she finally told me that she had been feeling unwell. But by then, of course, it was too late.”

 

The reassurance felt like anything but. Of course Milah would have hoped for the best, believing that the nausea and malaise were signs of a bright future with her doting husband-to-be. Emma wouldn’t even be surprised if she had passed off the fever as a side effect. What a terrible moment, Emma thought, to be so close to happiness and to have it all ripped away. She couldn’t begin to imagine it. 

 

His face was scrunched in pain as though he were reliving the experience. 

 

“I was not permitted to see her after she was admitted into hospital,” he continued. “She must have known that too, I think, but she knew that I would never have left her side if I had known.” 

 

Killian paused, taking a breath to steady himself. Emma felt useless as she watched him be pulled into darker times, unable to find anything to soothe his hurt. She had never been the one to provide comfort to her small handful of friends in the palace - that responsibility had always fallen squarely on Ruby’s shoulders. And besides, how was she meant to say kind and thoughtful words for a woman she had never met? Surely anything she said in that regard would seem false and insincere, making matters worse. 

 

In the end, Emma settled on the words that she knew must have been true. 

 

“She must have loved you very much.”  

 

It wasn't much, but Killian gave an appreciative nod for the effort. She could see the guilt in his eyes, and though Emma had never lost anyone to illness before, it wasn’t difficult to imagine where his thoughts had gone. He had wanted to be with her during her final moments, and he hadn’t been able to. It was common, Emma thought, to want that, but she couldn’t help but think that Killian had been spared a particularly cruel fate. For as horrible as the memories of Milah’s illness were for him now, Emma imagined that the images of her diseased ravaged body lying cold in his arms would have been far more difficult to purge. She only prayed that he could find at least some peace and comfort in that. 

 

They had reached the end of the platform, the drop off in the path revealing where the station hands had given up clearing the walkway of snow. The area was deserted of other passengers, the far walk likely too tedious for most to make. They stood at the edge in silence and peered down the long tracks to where they disappeared in the distance. It wasn’t the loveliest of sights; the grey sky, bare knobbled trees, and pale snow gave the entire area a gloomy feel. They had many weeks left until the land would thaw and life would return to the town. 

 

Emma looked down to see what appeared to be a thin, red book partially protruding from a small pile that had been brushed into the side of a pillar. Taking care not to get her borrowed gloves covered in snow, she tugged the package loose. 

 

It was a magazine - a satirical one - folded open to a page that contained a pair of drawings. The words were smudged and unreadable, but even through the wet of the snow that had seeped through the thin paper, the grotesque caricatures were unmistakeable; a hefty man carrying a cigar and a money box sat astride a crawling and pitiful looking Rasputin, while another man carrying a large pencil and several cartoonish drawings of the the head monarch rode a bridled Tsar Nicholas II.  

 

Killian, who had been examining the pages over her shoulder, spoke up. 

 

“What does it say?” 

 

“Does it matter?” Emma snapped. Her tone came off more harsh than she had intended, but she couldn’t help the anger that was boiling inside her.  

 

Killian only hummed noncommittally. It was innocent enough, but it was more than enough to set her on edge. It was irritating that he did not -  _ could not  _ \- share her outrage at the defamatory images. Caricatures were not uncommon and Emma was not so naive as to think that they did not have similar drawings of royal families in Britain and elsewhere, but it was not the same. Emma  _ knew _ these people, knew what was truly in their hearts in a way that all of the artists and critics would never understand. In a way that the Bolsheviks would never understand. 

 

She crunched the magazine between her gloved hands and jammed it back underneath the snow. It was petty, and Emma knew that there were likely plenty more copies on the kitchen tables of the dissidents, but at least there was one less. It didn’t matter if anyone else came across it; the paper was nearly ruined as it was. She only prayed that it would rot in the coming spring slush. 

 

Killian hadn’t said a word as he had watched her bury the pages in the snow, and Emma was sure that he must think she was mad. Given his comments about the Imperial family earlier, Emma doubted he would understand her wish to protect the dishonoured royals. They weren’t worth her tears, he probably thought, and they were certainly not worth digging in the snow for. Perhaps he was even right a bit, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t need him to say it. 

 

Without looking at her companion, Emma stood up and began patting the snow off of the gloves and brushing the clumps of snow from the skirt of her dress. The wind had picked up a bit and Emma tugged her coat tighter around her, fixing her long hair around her shoulders to keep her neck warm. 

 

Killian leaned his back against one of the pillars, crossing his arms across his chest. His cheeks and nose were flushed pink from the cold, and it made Emma briefly wonder if he would even tell her if he was feeling the cold as she was. Given that he seemed to be as stubborn as her in that regard, she thought not. 

 

“What was it like?” 

 

Emma frowned, confused. “I beg your pardon?” 

 

“To live in the palace. What was it like?” 

 

Emma paused, not expecting such a question. Indeed, it was never a question she had ever been asked before. Anyone she had ever really known had worked in the palace, so the question would have been ridiculous.  _ What had it been like?  _ It was strange, but Emma found herself woefully unprepared to answer. She considered brushing off the answer, of giving a quick shrug and changing the subject, but the look of genuine curiosity on Killian’s face made her waver. It seemed unfair to give him nothing when he had given her so much.

 

“It was lovely,” she said after a moment. “At least, I thought so.” 

 

Killian raised an eyebrow. “I take it the Tsar did not?”

 

“Not the Winter Palace, no,” Emma admitted. “It is strange to think, I know, given its beauty but they hated that palace. They found it a blessing to leave there.” 

 

She would never admit it to anyone, but she had once heard the Tsar announce in front of a room full of guests the night before they had left for holidays that he pitied anyone who had to remain in the “bog” that was Petrograd. 

 

“How old were you when you came into their employ?” 

 

“I was fourteen.”

 

Killian gave a low whistle. “That is quite a young age to be so close with royalty.” 

 

Emma laughed. “It was not that terrible, I assure you. I was working in the kitchens at the time. It was not anything particularly special, but I would help prepare the food for the chefs. There was an older woman there - Cora - who hated me desperately though.” 

 

“She sounds like a witch.” 

 

“She was.” Emma wrinkled her nose at the memory. “She had a daughter who was just slightly older than I was, and I believe Cora was convinced that she had more royal blood in her than the entire Romanov family combined.”

 

“That is quite bold of her. I always imagined that anyone who spoke against the family would be put to death.” 

 

“Yes, well, unfortunately for me, I was the only one who ever heard her speak that way. My mother used to tell me that she would receive only what she was owed.” Emma thought for a moment. “I suppose that it exactly what she got, in the end.” 

 

Killian tilted his head to look at her. “And what was that?” 

 

“Nothing.” Emma shrugged, moving a wisp of blond hair from where in caught in the corner of her mouth. “Granny was the personal maid to the Tsarina, and when the Tsarina expressed interest in a new, young maid, she recommended me.”

 

“A child?” Killian raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

 

“Someone who was near her daughter’s age,” Emma explained. “I was only five years older than the eldest daughter and the Tsarina believed it would be best to have someone her own age to play with.” 

 

“I mean no offence, Miss Swan, but surely the Romanov family has connections to plenty of children with more, er, well,  _ favourable _ backgrounds than yours.”

 

“The Tsarina hated them all. She never did like the royal lifestyle anyhow. She thought it was insincere and self-glamorizing. She did not want her children to be raised like that. Hence why they brought me in.”

 

“I am sure the old witch was pleased with that decision.”       

 

Emma shrugged. “She threatened me, and she threatened my parents. She even threatened Granny. I am sure it was the last one that had her and her daughter thrown from the castle.”

 

“As they should have been,” Killian stressed firmly. “It serves them right.” 

 

“Perhaps, but not the daughter - Regina. I am certain she would have been a kind and loving child if it were not for her mother. It was awful.”

 

Killian seemed to think about that for a moment. He removed his hat and lazily brushed off the snow that had gathered in a light dusting over it. His expression was unreadable, but Emma preferred it to the look of haunting and sadness that had marred his features when he talked about his fiance. 

 

“Indeed. Wounds made when we are young tend to linger. The sins of the father become the sins of the children. Or mothers to their daughters, in this case.” 

 

There was a tone in his voice that was unmistakeable. 

 

“You sound as though you speak from experience,” she noted.  

 

“A tale for another time, perhaps.” His smile was likely meant to be reassuring, but Emma saw past it. Still, she would not push. He would surely tell her in his own time. “You were saying, Miss Swan?” 

 

“Yes, of course,” she continued, returning back to her own memories. “Well, needless to say that the family were more than pleased to move to the palace in  Tsarskoe Selo. It was calmer and less formal that before. It was really quite comfortable.” 

 

“I am sure that any palace that the Tsar chose would be comfortable,” Killian pointed out. 

 

“Maybe, but I believe that it makes a difference. It, well, it  _ feels _ different when you are away from the city, when it is only the family and the closest staff. They were never unkind, or cruel towards us. They treated me as though I were one of their own.” She was nearly whispering by then. “They were my family.”  

 

“If I am correct, then, Miss Swan,” he began, his tone becoming more playful again, “that would make you a princess.” 

 

“And what if I were?” She smiled back, tilting her head. “Would that be more believable than my story about being a palace maid, running away to Britain to escape a possible revolution?”  

 

Killian paused, thinking. “If that were the real truth, I think I would know it and I would believe you.”

 

Emma snorted. “You keep saying that but I am not sure what I have done to earn your trust.”

 

“Do you trust me?” Killian was looking at her again with his piercing blue eyes. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

She answered immediately, almost without thinking. It was nearly shocking that it was the truth, but she did trust him.

 

Killian shrugged. “Then that is enough,” he replied simply.

 

He said it with such confidence, as though there weren’t any other factors to consider, as though it really could be that simple as to just trust someone implicitly. He was able to stand on a platform in a foreign train station, after lying to Imperial soldiers, and trust her. Emma had never been that way with anyone before. Perhaps she never would. But in that moment, Emma felt proud to have someone like Killian Jones on her side.

 

No,  _ Killian _ , she corrected.

 

Perhaps it was because she was examining him so closely, but Emma caught the exact moment a shiver broke free from his body. It was gone in an instant, but it was enough. 

 

Knowing that he would never admit his discomfort to her, let alone ask for his gloves back, Emma took a few steps forward to close the distance between them. Surprise flickered across his face as she curled up into his side, letting the heat of their bodies combine between them.  

 

And once again, it didn’t bother her that she was practically wrapped in the arms of a stranger in plain daylight, for all the world to see. He wasn’t a stranger, he was Killian. Killian, who in the short span of a few hours, had become both her friend and ally. It was an unconventional friendship, so say the least, but then again, it was more than she had ever hoped for after leaving her only friends and family behind. Perhaps Killian was right. Perhaps, even, it was more than enough.    

 

“What will happen to them?” He asked then, his voice quiet. “The Imperial family, that is.” 

 

_ What will happen to you? _

 

He hadn’t said it, but she had heard them lingering behind his words. His never ending concern for her, as always. 

 

“I do not know,” she answered honestly. 

 

His adam’s apple bobbed as he processed her words. He had been so kind to her, and it hurt that she couldn’t reassure him that his efforts weren’t all for naught. There was still a very real chance that they would be caught - that  _ she _ would be caught - and there would be nothing that either of them would be able to do about it. It was the price that she had agreed to pay all those years ago when she had entered into the Imperial family’s service, back when talks of war and revolution had been merely hypothetical gossip. It was a cruel bargain, but Emma was certain that she would choose it again every time if she were given the chance.

 

She looked up and found him watching her, his expression warm. There was a slight smile on his face, and now that she was up close and out of the dim light of the cabin, Emma could swear that his eyes were more blue than she had ever seen them. 

 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She asked, only half teasing. It didn’t seem to deter him, his gaze tender.

 

“Nothing, love. Only that you have some snow caught in your hair,” he murmured almost absently, never breaking his gaze away from her face. 

 

He reached out and delicately brushed the hair just above her left ear, tucking the strands behind as he did so. His fingertips were cold where they brushed against her cheekbone, and Emma felt a momentary pang of guilt at knowing that she had made them that way. She wanted to return them then, insist that she would be fine without the extra layer, but she found that she couldn’t speak. Not with the way that his eyes were staring into hers, captivating her. 

 

Emma wasn’t sure who had moved, but suddenly, they were closer than they had been moments earlier. He was close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, his nose inches away from her own. It was only the fact that she wasn’t able to see her own breath in the cold air that made her realize she had been holding it, waiting to see what he would do. His pupils were blown wide, and she was sure that if she let herself go, she could press herself into him and find out if any rum lingered on his lips from the night before. He would let her, she thought, and in moments they could find themselves tangled in a passionate embrace, the cold forgotten and the black iron train a distant memory. 

 

But Emma had done this before, been caught in this exact position only hours before, and she knew what would happen next. And it wasn’t that. In a second, he would begin to pull away again, just as he had in the corridor. In another second, she would have to hear his apologies, hear how he couldn’t handle it, how his heart belonged to another. It would be the same as before, she was sure. At least now she knew why. 

 

And she knew that there was only one way their journey together would end. 

 

“Perhaps…” Killian began, his voice barely a whisper. 

 

“Perhaps we should go back inside now,” she finished for him, just as quietly. She took a step away from him then, moving her hair back to cover her ears and wrapping her arms around her. “I am feeling a bit cold.” 

 

His eyes flickered between hers for a moment, and Emma thought that he looked almost disappointed. But then again, Emma knew better than that. 

 

_ This. This is why boundaries were needed, why rules were made to be followed. _

 

Emma was only fortunate that she hadn’t let herself indulge. There was still time to return to their original agreement. The momentary regret he felt would turn into guilt at having lusted over her and they would return to normal, just as it had before. 

 

He nodded, looking anywhere but at her, and Emma took that as a cue to leave. She spun on her heels and made her way back to their cabin, the soft crunch of snow behind her the only indication that he was following. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Emma and Killian arrive in Moscow.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, I am absolutely ecstatic to reveal the new cover art for this fic! I’m so grateful to @mrs-emma-swan-jones for taking time to make this wonderful artwork (I honestly can’t stop staring at it!!). Everyone needs to send a lot of love her way :) Secondly, because I received this fantastic piece of inspiration, I went a bit overboard with this chapter and you’ll be getting a lot more bang for your buck. Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

_Nikolayevsky Station; March 15th, 1917. 12:47pm._

 

He had wanted to speak to her about what had happened on the platform. It had seemed like she was nearing to kiss him, he was almost certain that she had been, but every time he looked at her now, all he saw was sadness. It was almost as though she could read his mind, see what had been meaning to ask her and pitied him for thinking that her motives were anything but innocent.

 

In a way, he wished that they had been. Killian was the first to admit that he had been far from celibate since Milah’s death, but all of the women before had been faceless, nameless distractions that had eased the ache. Nothing had made his heart race quite like the near kisses he had almost shared with Emma. It was terrifying.

 

He liked Emma. His heart certainly didn’t belong to her, but he couldn’t deny that he liked her. After all, what was not to like? She was beautiful, intelligent, funny and had a good heart that he was still trying to uncover. Any man would be lucky to have her, and Killian had no doubt that one day, someone deserving of her love would win her heart. A far better man than Killian Jones, that was for certain.  

 

It was a harsh reality, but it wasn’t any less true. He had been resolute in his plan at the beginning; he was going to help her get to her destination, receive similar help in return, and perhaps flirt a little bit. There was no harm in that, surely. It wasn’t as if he were somehow growing feelings for her, was it?

 

It made him nearly squirm that the answer was no longer a sure ‘no’.

 

Killian let out a breath and rested his forehead against the double layer of thick glass. Emma had immediately requested use of the cabin to change her clothes when they had boarded the train, and Killian had of course obliged. He had tried pacing to clear his mind, wearing down the already threadbare carpet, but when that had proved ineffective he had given up. Leaning against the wooden panelled walls, Killian tried to make out the blurred objects rushing past the window, but even with the added sunlight, it was impossible.

 

When he was summoned back inside the room a few minutes later, Emma was curled up on her bench, nose deep inside a book. She had exchanged her simple black skirt for one that was a deep crimson, and her simple white blouse had been swapped for one that was patterned with small roses of the same red. Killian couldn’t help but gawk; red was certainly her colour.

 

She glanced up from her page as he sat down across from her.

 

“Would you like to change now?”

 

Killian thought about it. He hadn’t changed his clothes since the night before, but in order to dress, Emma would need to leave the room, and Killian didn’t want to disturb her for something so trivial. Not when she looked so comfortable, her feet tucked up under her.

 

“Perhaps later,” he said with a shrug. Emma immediately returned to her book, thumbing through the pages to her spot. He couldn’t tell what the book was - the words on the cover were clearly written in Russian - and by the look of determined concentration on her face as she scanned the text, now was not the right time to ask.   

 

Not sure what to do, but half-certain that Emma was actively trying to do anything else but converse with him, Killian brought out his own book and tried to read. They sat in silence for the next two hours as the train made its final approach into Moscow. He half expected her to say something when they finally pulled up to the platform, but instead, he found himself packing his bags in further silence.

 

They were halfway through the station, following the thick crowd through the tall, arched exits, when Killian finally had enough.

 

“Swan, are you avoiding me?”

 

She stopped, her eyes widening in surprise. At least he had gotten her attention.

 

“I am not avoiding you. I have a million things on my mind.”

 

It was a weak excuse, a reflex garnered from years of practice. For whatever reason, her walls seemed to be back up. He wanted to scream.

 

“Is that all?” He pressed, his voice as even as he could make it.

 

Emma looked as though she were about to argue - or worse, deflect again - but something made her pause. She returned his gaze, her lips pursed in contemplation as she mulled something over in her mind. Finally, she looked away, sighing in a way that indicated she was about to share something she had hoped to keep to herself.

 

“ _And_ ,” she continued, “perhaps our discussion about the Imperial family earlier set me ill at ease.”

 

“The family?” He asked, confused.

 

“I left many loved ones behind yesterday. It makes me nervous, knowing that it may be a long time until I receive word from them.”

 

Though the words surprised him, they didn’t necessarily ring false to his ears.

 

“Of course, lass,” he responded, hanging his head. “My apologies for thinking otherwise.”

 

He had worried that she regretted being with him - agreeing to be his translator. If he was honest, he had also been afraid that their near kisses - twice, now - had been weighing on her mind, and her silence meant that she simply couldn’t decide on how to let him down gently.

 

How selfish to think that he should occupy her thoughts as often and she occupied his. How arrogant could he be that he should think he was somehow worth her worry. He wanted to curse himself for his stupidity.

 

“Where are you meeting him?”

 

Her words drew him from his thoughts, and his scowl turned into a look of confusion.

 

“Your partner,” she quickly clarified. “You said he would be expecting you here.”

 

“Oh, yes. Right.”

 

He scrambled for the little folded note in his breast pocket that Will had given him before he had left. Even through his partner’s terrible handwriting he could make out the swirled letters of the restaurant that he was meant to go to upon arrival.

 

_The White Rabbit._

 

“Cheeky,” Emma commented, reading through the list of instructions she’d been given.

 

Killian raised an eyebrow. “Yes, well just wait until you meet him.”

 

Emma handed him back his note and they set off to find a driver.

 

It took a few minutes, but soon they were on their way, their luggage packed away in the boot of a jittery little cab that sounded as though it was practically wheezing in the thick snow. After about twenty minutes, the driver chirped out some instructions, glancing into the back mirror at the pair. They had arrived at the pedestrian only street - the _Arbat_ \- and would need to walk from here. It mattered little; the weather seemed to be much more pleasant that it had been in days, and after being cooped up in a small cabin for a day, Killian had to admit that the long stroll would do them both some good.

 

They got out, collected their possessions and paid, before turning down the street that Emma believed the restaurant to be on.

 

The Arbat, Emma explained, was one of the oldest streets in Moscow. It was far enough from the Kremlin that the nobility tended to leave it alone, and the street had developed almost a rural feel. Since being rebuilt after the battle with the French had left the area in ashes, the street had begun catering mainly to scholars and artists, both of which brought it’s own unique flare. Most of the buildings were all two, three stories high at most, while others looked more modern and reached seven or eight stories high. It was the churches, however, that dominated the view, towering high over the street below, their shadows almost non existent in the grey-white daylight. Electric trams likely frequented the busy street, but with the power reserves drained, they now sat stationary in their tracks.

 

Emma must have noticed his wonder, for a moment later, she leaned in closer.

 

“Do not worry,” she teased in his ear. “I will not be letting you out of my sight for a minute.”

 

He returned her smirk.

 

“I would despair if you did.”

 

The restaurant was a small little hole in the wall just off of the main boulevard. He might have missed it if it weren’t for the faded sign hanging outside, written in tall white cyrillic letters and boasting a cartoonish white rabbit rearing on it’s hind legs. It both looked nothing like and exactly like the type of place that Will Scarlet would frequent.

 

The outside door was unlocked, and they slipped inside easily as the heavy door thudded shut behind them. Immediately the pair were hit with a wave of heat. It was just past four o’clock and the heat from the ovens combined with the candles adorning the walls had turned the room into a furnace. Still, it was a refreshing change from the chill outside.

 

Killian tapped the little desk bell, and almost immediately, a young woman appeared from a hallway off to the side. She wore a friendly smile, her rosy cheekbones high and pronounced by her long brown hair tied up in a tight knot at the back of her head. She greeted them, her voice up turning into a question that Killian did not understand.

 

“We are meeting Will Scarlet,” Killian informed her, hoping that the name was enough to direct her. “I believe he is expecting us.”

 

It was enough. The hostess nodded once, and lead them down the hallway to an arched wooden doorway that led to the dining room. The rooms were cooler in the back, though still warm, likely due to the old stone walls. While the front of house had been apparently renovated, the back retained its rustic charm. Whether the decision was due to esthetics or money, Killian did not know.  

 

Almost as soon as his foot had crossed the threshold, Killian heard Will’s thick cockney accent echo out a cheery greeting.

 

“ _Where the devil have you been?_ ”

 

His partner, who had moments before been seated at a table in the corner of the small dining room, stalked toward him, his thick, perfectly groomed eyebrows pinched together in annoyance. His hair was cropped too short for the cold weather, and Killian was sure that the tips of his ears would be aching with frostbite by the time they returned to London.

 

“You were supposed to have been here bloody hours ago, you-”

 

Will stopped short and his eyes widened slightly as he noticed Emma walk through the doorway behind him.  

 

“Ah, my apologies,” he began again, slowly and definitely more quietly. “I did not realise you had lady in tow.”

 

Will had not taken his eyes off of the blond at his side as he’d spoken, but now he looked at Killian, his eyebrows raised and stare accusatory. There would surely be hell to pay later for not informing him of Emma’s presence.

 

“We were detained,” Killian stated simply, turning to help Emma remove her overcoat before shucking his own. He took their bags and tucked them under the table.

 

As soon as Emma’s arms were free, Will stepped forward to take her hand is his. “Will Scarlet,” he introduced himself, bowing slightly to place a light kiss on her knuckles. “Trust Killian Jones to go on a business trip and land himself a pretty lady.”

 

Killian nearly choked. “It is not like that. She is merely a friend.”

 

“Ah, well, then. My apologies, Miss…?”

 

“Emma Nolana,” Emma finished for him, giving a slight curtsey. Will’s grin widened as he detected the hints of her accent.

 

“ _Privet_ , Emma Nolana. _Ochen Priyatno_.”

 

“ _Ochen Priyatno._ Your Russian is very good,” she praised, releasing his hand.  

 

“Very kind of you, lass. I taught this man all the Russian he knows,” he ribbed, gesturing at Killian.

 

Emma raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I was not aware that Killian spoke any Russian at all.”

 

“Exactly! He would not need me if he did, and I am not about to get myself fired. A trick of the trade, my dear. Always know your own worth.”

 

Emma looked bemused by the quick wit of his business partner, and Killian felt something akin to jealousy curl in his stomach. He had spent the past day and a half building an easy friendship with the blond, slowly gaining her trust and getting to know the real Emma, and here was Scarlet, seconds after meeting her and already charming his way into her good graces. It wasn’t fair.

 

He stepped up behind one of the carved wooden chairs and pulled the seat out for Emma. She nodded graciously, and he took his seat next to her, while Will moved to reoccupy the chair across from them.

 

“Well it was lucky that you arrived when you did,” Will pointed out, rolling up his sleeves. “You would not want your food to be served cold on a day like today.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Will’s eyebrows raised at Killian’s question. “Did Miss Nolana not tell you anything?”

 

“How could she when you have not stopped talking since we entered,” Killian muttered a bit sourly.  

 

“Alright.” Will waved him off. “The city is under strict gas hours since they ran out of coal. Moscow only has access to fuel between 7 and 8 in the morning, 11 and 2, and 4 and 5pm. I would guess this is the only place in town that even cares to light the ovens. The owner is a friend of a friend - well, friend might be a strong word, actually - but he is granting me this favour anyways.”

 

Almost as if on cue, the woman who had brought them in reappeared at Will’s side. Will ordered for himself and Killian - knowing what his boss liked to eat was one of the many things the Will received payment for - before turning to Emma.

 

“Anything you would like, my dear,” Will encouraged, pushing a menu toward the blond. “Though I would caution against the mushrooms. They are not always what you think.”

 

Emma nodded, glancing down at the worn piece of paper on the table. She quickly read off her order to the woman, who then dashed off toward the kitchen.

 

“How was St. Petersburg?”

 

“Petrograd,” Killian corrected automatically. Will waved him off.

 

“Changing the name of the city to make it sound less German is a cheap parlour trick to disguise the fact that the Tsar has no _bloody_ idea what he is doing in this war. Call the city by its true name.”

 

Killian hummed noncommittally. He had felt Emma go rigid in the seat beside him at the mention of the family, so he quickly changed the subject.

 

“Have there been any developments regarding the shipyard?”

 

Will made a face. “Our friend Hans seems to think he owns half of the ports between here and Denmark. I am not surprised he tried to buy the loading dock out from under us.”

 

“Does he have the funds?”

 

“According to the rumours, yes. But,” Will added, noticing the scowl on his partner’s face, “that is where my expertise comes in. I happen to know that the harbourmaster prefers to deal in favours rather than money. Hans may be rich, but he is no Will Scarlet, I can tell you that. I can manage it.”

 

Killian relaxed. If securing their shipping dock in Petrograd meant relying on Will’s silver tongue, then it was almost a certainty. Will had been his partner for years, and he knew the limits of what Killian was willing to sacrifice for his company. He did not even need to ask to know that whatever trade that Will made to reaffirm their presence in the busy shipping port would be worth it. Another box ticked.

 

“I have no doubt that you will. I have heard that Hans is more brawn than brains anyways.”

 

“Well, fortunately for us, I am loaded with both.” Will smiled up at the waitress as she returned with their tea. The woman blushed and scurried away.  

“Now,” Will exclaimed, rubbing his hands in anticipation, “I have told you what I have been up to. I think it is time for you to explain how you found such a lovely young lady in the few days that I left you alone.”

 

Killian had expected the curiosity. He had even rehearsed his response on the train, working on his tells and hoping that Will would not ask more questions than necessary. Of course there was no chance for the last bit, but he could dream.

 

Just as he was about to open his mouth and begin spinning his story, Emma piped up.

 

“I am afraid the story is not nearly as interesting as you might think,” Emma started, her smile polite, her posture perfect. Perhaps he had not been the only one who had prepared their skit. “I found your friend at Moskovsky station, wandering around as a lost puppy. I am a language tutor by trade, and so I stepped up and offered my services.”

 

Will’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You mean to say that you travelled all the way to Moscow to help Killian? That seems awfully generous of you.”

 

Emma laughed, light and innocent.

 

“No, no. I was already on my way here. There are some supplies that I am meant to pick up here. My employer has a fondness for rare books, and I was the most suited to go.”

 

She was good. Her words flowed easily, her story convincing. If Killian hadn’t known the truth, he would have been almost tempted to believe her himself. But it wasn’t him that she needed to convince, it was the sharp minded partner across from them.

 

Will’s surprise seemed to fade, but his curiosity did not. He turned toward Killian. “Is that right?”

 

Killian shrugged, picking up his tea to distract himself from the urge to scratch behind his ear.

 

“As you said, you left me alone without a translator. I made do.” He sipped his tea.

 

Luckily they were saved from further scrutiny as the waitress appeared with their food. Emma had opted for the same thing as the men; a bowl of hot beetroot soup and bread. They ate in silence, the sound of silverware clinking against porcelain dishes the only sound in the room. The texture was slightly more watery than was probably typical, but none of them complained. It was likely the best food in the city, and as neither of the travellers had thought to eat breakfast, the group had to refrain from devouring their meals.

 

“I have a room for you,” Will started again after a few minutes. “I was not aware that you would have company, so I only picked the one, though it does have two beds. I was.... meant to have the other one.”

 

Emma’s brow furrowed in concern. “We could not possibly push you out of your room.”

 

“Fear not, Swan,” Killian reassured her. “Will may look well and proper, but I assure you he is accustomed to sleeping in rough places. I am certain he will find somewhere to rest his head for the night.”

 

“‘Well and proper’? Someone _is_ trying to butter me up!”

 

“Really, though, it is your room and I-” Emma tried, but Will waved off her concern.

 

“I am quite well acquainted around these areas, Miss Nolana. You needn’t worry about me.”

 

“Worry about you?” Killian snorted. “I am more worried about the poor lass who will have the misfortune of sharing her bed with you.”

 

He knew very well whose bed Will would end up crawling into at the end of the night - it was the same one he had snuck off to during every other trip they had made to Moscow - and that the lovely lass wouldn’t mind a bit. Still, it earned him a smile from Emma.

 

“Speaking of which,” Will added, ignoring the jab. “There is going to be a party at Anastasia’s home tomorrow evening. I already told her that you would go.”

 

Killian’s stomach immediately flopped.

 

“Will, I am afraid I cannot. My plans have...changed.” It was a reflex that had his gaze flickering to Emma, but Will’s keen eye noticed immediately.

 

“Well, by all means, bring Miss Nolana!” Before Killian could say a word to stop him, Will had turned to Emma. “How would you like to come to a party, Miss Nolana?”

 

“Will!”

 

“If you will not, I might as well invite the lady,” Will pointed out with a wolfish grin. He directed his attention back toward the lady seated across from him. “Miss Nolana. Would you care to accompany me to a party tomorrow? I am afraid that if Killian will not go-”

 

“Fine, Will,” Killian stopped. “Yes. I will go.”

 

The thought of Emma tagging along with Will as a date was slightly more than he could stomach. She would be safe enough - the invitees would surely be people that he had met a dozen times or more - but he couldn’t count on Will to keep her company the entire night. Not when Anastasia was there, at least.

 

Killian turned to her then, his expression equal parts frustrated, apologetic, and hopeful.

 

“Would you care to go to Anastasia’s party with me tomorrow?”

 

Emma hesitated, her green eyes flickering between the pair. This was assuredly not the way in which he would have liked to ask her to go on an outing with him. Not that he had thought about it much - well, not overly so, at least. He _had_ thought about it. He had thought about a lot of things regarding Emma lately, some more innocent than others…

 

He found himself rather nervous of her answer.

 

“Yes,” she finally answered with a small smile. “Why not? It sounds like it will be great fun.”  

 

“Grand!” Will exclaimed, clapping his hands together and rubbing them together. “Tomorrow, then. Killian knows the address.”

 

Will paid little attention to the glare he was receiving from his partner as he dug around in his breast pocket for his watch. Clicking open the face, he nearly started at the hour. “Bloody- is that the time? I need to leave before…” He trailed off as he stood to pull his winter coat over his shoulders. He wrapped the last of his bread in a handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. Good food was not to be wasted.

 

“Killian. Miss Nolana,” he nodded with a wink, as he laid down a wad of cash on the table to cover his check. “I must bid you adieu.”

 

“It was a pleasure,” Emma responded politely, ever the diplomat. Killian was not as refined.

 

“Where are you going?” He asked, suspicious.

 

“Business.”

 

“Need I remind you that your business is _my_ business?”

 

“Of course! Even more reason not to delay. I cannot appear to be slacking off in front of my boss, now, can I?”

 

Killian glared at his partner. “Alright. Just remember to stay out of trouble.”

 

“Trouble?” Will asked, affronted. “I would never, Jones.”

 

Killian almost rolled his eyes at the smirk on his partner’s face.  

 

“Speaking of trouble,” Will continued, glancing again at the pocketwatch in his hands. “You might want to find yourselves at the hotel sooner rather than later. The city goes dark at 8 o’clock. Though,” he added with a wink, as he began to walk away. “I have no doubt that you will find other ways to keep yourselves busy.”

 

Killian didn’t need to look to know that Emma had flushed at the words.  

 

“Piss off, Will,” he couldn’t help but mutter as his partner made his way toward the stairs, waving farewell to the head server as he left.

 

“Mind your language, ol’ chap!”

 

As was often the case with Will, the room seemed to turn quiet with his departure. It was one of the most tactical tricks about his business partner; his ability to leave a room and make a person long for more. More energy, more lightheartedness, more excitement. Despite his earlier jibe, he really was an indispensable member of Killian’s team and there were more than a few antics that Killian had let slide because of his talent. If anyone could sell water to a fish, it was Will Scarlet.

 

“That man must have the ears of a fox,” Emma remarked, her eyes lingering on the doorway.

 

“I apologize for my partner. He can be a bit much,” Killian sighed, an anxious knot forming in his stomach. “Do you mind very much? About the party, that is. I know it is last minute...”

 

“Not at all, I am sure it will be fine. It is only that I am afraid I have not brought anything to wear.”

 

“We can take care of that. I will need to buy some things tomorrow as well.”

 

“Alright.”

 

They slowly finished their meal and paid, handing each waiter a generous tip that left the staff beaming. Emma smiled as the owner walked them to the door, the jolly man singing their praise in a way that only a friend of Will Scarlet’s could. It was only after Killian promised that they would be back soon that the man finally granted them a moment to make their escape. Even then, the owner stood on the stoop and watched the pair set off for the hotel, and Killian couldn’t help but wonder what a Muscovite had to do to stock enough food to run a restaurant in a country currently plagued by famine. Perhaps it was best not to know.

 

They walked arm and arm down the snowy street, their bellies full and warm from the hearty meal. A good thing, too; it was barely half past six and the sun was already beginning to set. Soon, the little warmth that the daylight provided would soon be gone entirely and the city would be dark and cold once more.

 

Yet, even at dusk, the city seemed full of life. The street was filled with chatter as Muscovites rushed home from their jobs, eager to get home before the horizon extinguished the last of the light. A few children played in the streets, bundled in whatever their parents had found suitable to protect them from the cold. They would no doubt be scolded by their parents when they returned home with soggy mittens, but for now, at least, the fun could continue.

 

The hotel was only a few blocks away and, for once, Killian knew the route well. It was the same building that Will had rented out every time they had travelled together to Moscow. Still, it had been a while since they had made use of the accommodations; Anastasia had insisted on hosting them for their first night back in Russia the evening before they had set out for Petrograd, and Killian was unused to making the trek through the city without Will.

 

He felt a flash of pride when they finally rounded the corner and the weathered, grey building came into view. It was nothing fancy - as head of his unit, Killian insisted that business trips be expensed accordingly, even for the higher ranking positions - but the sheets were clean, the doors had locks, and Will swore up and down that the tenants outnumbered the rats.

 

Just as he was about to ascend the short flight of stairs that led to the entrance, Killian felt a tug on his arm. Emma had stopped, and was glancing warily at the building.   

 

“I am not sure that I should accompany you. Perhaps I ought to get my own room.”

 

Killian furrowed his brow in confusion. “Nonsense. We have shared a room before, and Will has assured me that there are two beds.”

 

“It is not that,” Emma insisted, her gaze flickering to the door. “I only worry how it will look for you if you arrive with, well, _me_ on your arm.”

 

“Fear not, Swan,” he reassured her, slipping his arm out of her grasp to take her hand instead. “I assure you, this establishment has seen far more questionable women passing through it’s doors.”

 

Emma appeared to pale slightly at his words.

 

“I was only trying to protect your dignity.”

 

“My dignity is quite well protected, Swan,” he chuckled, reaching up to place a hand on the doorknob. “You are quite possibly the most unique woman I have ever met, but I do not think that they will suspect you of it. Now, shall we?”

 

He nodded his head toward the wooden entranceway, and after another moment’s hesitation, Emma shifted her bags in her hand and followed him up the stairs.   

 

The receptionist nearly leapt from her seat as the pair entered. The novel that had been clutched in her hands had been immediately tossed aside, an envelope shoved in between the pages to mark her spot, as she reached for the ledger beside her. She was an older woman, her hair already white as the snow outside, but she was quick, and after a rushed - and rather ingenuous - greeting, she was pushing the leather bound book across the desk toward them. Emma responded politely as the duo removed their hats and gloves, brushing the snow from their clothing where it had gathered in clumps. The ease with which Emma switched languages on a dime never ceased to amaze him.

 

Killian picked up the pen from the desk and signed his name where Emma indicated that he should. His eyes were fixed on the form in front of him, and as such, he missed the cause of the old woman’s indignant huff. He looked up quickly, catching the moment that Emma shoved both of her hands into her pockets, her cheeks flushed scarlet in embarrassment. The woman was nearly glaring in disapproval, and Emma gave a nervous smile before replying to a question that he hadn’t be privy to.

 

The woman rolled her eyes, but reached into a drawer nonetheless and retrieved a single key with a number engraved into it. After ruffling through another drawer, she produced a single candle in a small holder, using the oil lamp on the table to light it. She made to hand the candle to Killian, but upon showing that woman that he hadn’t enough hands to carry everything, the woman passed it to Emma. She muttered some instructions, performed some hand motions that Killian was just able to make out as directions, before snatching back the ledger and retreating into a back room behind her.

 

Killian raised his eyebrow at Emma in question, but she simply shook her head and led him down the hallway that the woman had indicated.

 

As promised, the room contained two narrow beds that mirrored each other on opposite walls. The room also contained two identical bedside tables, a large standing mirror, a dresser, and a coat rack. A stone fireplace sat in one corner of the room, though the city had run out of firewood long ago and the pit now housed only soot and ashes. There was an old room partition cramped in one corner, but other than that, the room provided little privacy. Not that it mattered; the night was still very young, but the pair were exhausted and were ready to sleep in proper beds. Besides, without any real light, there was not much that they could do.

 

The pair split off to change into their sleepwear, with Killian taking the first shift so that Emma was not forced to be alone in the hallway in only her sleeping garments. When Killian had finished, he lay his wooden hand on the dresser and snatched up his bottle of rum. Set, Killian moved into the hallway to stand guard as Emma took her chance to change. He leaned against the opposite wall, bottle in hand, as the lock clicked shut behind him.

 

All at once, the light from the room that had been illuminating the hallway vanished, leaving only a faint glow from underneath the door. Killian felt a pang of guilt at not realising that Emma had been left in the dark while he had been changing. He pulled out a match from his pocket - he had learned long ago to keep a matchbox on his person for just these reasons - and struck it against the wall. The tip immediately sparked into flame, casting a faint glow around him.  

 

The candle holders anchored to the walls were all empty, the cost of burning more candles than needed either too high or the stinginess of the landlord too great. Killian didn’t know which, but had a feeling that it might have been both. The fact that the hotel was able to operate at all given the rampant poverty was impressive as it was. Thinking about it now, he had yet to see another soul in the building. The hallwalls all seemed deserted, the lack of sound a jarring change from the hours spent on the rattling train. The matchstick burnt out then, and Killian didn’t bother lighting another one.

 

Killian waited, sipping his rum, until the sound of the lock on his room door being clicked open shattered the silence. He waited for Emma’s head to pop out and invite him in, but when that did not happen, he pushed off from the wall and moved closer. Tucking the bottle under his left arm he placed his right hand on the doorknob, and listened. Nothing. A slight twist and a soft push later and the door swung open easily.

 

Emma was already in bed, the sheets pulled up high on her torso so that only her blond head was visible. She was turned toward him, her eyes barely visible in the low candle light. She seemed to be watching him, her hands clutched around the blankets in order to conceal her body. The sudden defensiveness had Killian frowning in confusion. It was not the first time that they had slept in the same space, and, indeed, this space was much more accommodating than the cabin. Why would she suddenly be embarrassed? Unless...

 

Ah.

 

Emma had likely not prepared her luggage thinking that she would be sharing her space with a man.

 

He looked away immediately, noticing that Emma had moved the candle to his bedstand and assuredly not imagining the clothing that the beautiful blond had hidden underneath the covers.

 

“How are you finding the accommodations?” He asked, scratching behind his ear. It was a stupid question, but it was far better than admitting where his true thoughts had gone.

 

“Yes, thank you. I must remember to thank your partner again tomorrow for his generosity.”

 

Killian hummed noncommittally, walking over to his own bed and sitting down. If he was honest, he didn’t believe his partner required any more praise than was necessary. He remembered the comment Will had made as he was leaving and nearly blushed all over again. He wondered if it was on Emma’s mind as well.  

 

“You need not worry about Will,” he tried lamely. “He is a fine chap, even if he is a little overwhelming at times.”

 

Emma nodded, though it wasn’t clear whether she really agreed with the statement.

 

When she said no more, Killian tucked himself into the thin sheets and snuffed out the candle. The room was immediately plunged into total darkness. Even on the train, the low burning lamp light had broken the blackness enough to see some. The feeling of his eyes trying and failing to adjust was disorienting, and he found himself missing the sight of the woman across from him. He doubted she would run away and disappear into the night, but the discomfort was still there.

 

It was only when he heard her faint voice pipe up across the room that he relaxed some.

 

“Who is Anastasia?”

 

Killian supposed he should have realised that Emma would be curious as to the identity of the lady at the other end of the generous invitation she’d received. Someone in Emma’s sensitive position would have to be.

 

“In a better world, I think she would be Will’s fiance.”

 

He listened to the floorboards creak as Emma settled into the bed. He thought she might be facing him now, but he couldn’t be certain.

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“They have been in love since they were practically children. Will’s father travelled for work, and Will was brought to Moscow as a youth to study.”

 

“Hence the Russian.”

 

“Precisely,” he nodded, forgetting that she could not see him in the dark. “They met, and have been smitten with each other ever since.”

 

“Why have they never wed?”

“Anastasia’s parents do not approve of foreigners. They barely allowed the friendship, let alone a courtship. Will insists that they will one day run away with each other, her family be damned, but…”

 

“But?”

“I am not certain she will ever be ready to leave her family like that,” Killian admitted. “Not even for Will.”

 

There was a hum of understanding. Of course Emma would understand that, Killian thought. If anyone recognized the importance of title and status, it would be the woman who had grown up smack dab in the middle of it all. For a brief moment, Killian wondered if a man of status had ever caught Emma’s eye. A duke, or perhaps even a visiting prince. He wouldn’t blame her; Emma might have been closer to royalty than most people would ever dream of being, but she was still a red-blooded woman, capable of wants and urges similar to his own.

 

“Have you been friends long?” Emma asked, intruding his thoughts.

 

“A few years now, yes.” Killian considered his words for a moment, before adding, “I first met him in jail.”

 

He thought he heard a gasp.

 

“You were in _prison_?”

 

Killian grinned at the surprise in her voice. It was childish, but he enjoyed the idea that Emma was not the only one with a mysterious past.

 

“I spent a night in a cell for drunken disorderly. I believe I was too intoxicated to recall my own name, and the police sergeant had decided to wait until morning to determine who I was. Will was brought in a few hours later, I believe. He had been arrested for breaking and entering - possibly theft as well. I never did find out.”

 

“You two make quite a team.”

  
“We did,” Killian chuckled. “Will was somehow able to convince the officer that the house belonged to a friend of his and that he had heard a noise and had rushed in to investigate. He was able to recount every last detail of the inside and told such an elaborate story about his friendship with the owner, that the officer finally believed him and let him go. But just as he was about to leave, he turned and said to the officer, ‘well, if you are going to let me go, you might as well release my friend here. He was only trying to watch my back.’”  

 

“So he had not been robbing the house?”

 

“On the contrary, he had robbed that house before.”

 

Emma let out an unladylike snort at that. It was rather charming, Killian thought.

 

“Why did Will have you released as well?”

 

Killian shrugged. “I believe simply to show that he could. He is a bit of an arrogant sod.”

 

Instead of an answer, Killian heard the sound of sheets being rustled and a body rearranging itself on the thin mattress. It wasn’t the most comfortable bed that he had ever slept on, to be sure, but it was still miles better than the leather benched they had been sleeping on. Still, Emma seemed to be struggling. A moment later and he thought he could hear heavy breathing - _not_ the explicit kind. Was she was attempting to warm her fingers with her breath?

 

“This is a far cry from the soft palace bedding, I would guess, is it not?” He teased lightly.

 

“Yes.” He had definitely heard her teeth chatter that time. “Dear lord, it is freezing,” she finally murmured.

 

The temperature in room had certainly begun to drop, the insulation poor in the old building. He had started to feel a slight chill as well, but his experiences growing up in poverty had made him a veteran of the cold.

 

“Come over, Swan,” he called out into the dark.

 

“Over?”

 

“I can make space on my bed for you.”

 

“I cannot sleep in your bed!”

 

“Well, you cannot very well freeze to death five paces away from me.”

 

“I hardly think I will freeze to death,” Emma snorted, but even then there was a slight shake in her voice that gave her away.  

 

There was a long pause. “Very well then.”

 

Killian heard the distinct rustling of sheets being pulled away followed by the soft groan of old floorboards bearing weight. There was a tentative pause as Emma no doubt considered how to make the short journey in the pitch darkness, but a moment later there was the patter of bare feet on wood. The steps were halting, and Killian could imagine Emma’s arms reached out in front of her, blindly looking for the edge.

 

“Right here, love.”

 

Just then, her fingers brushed his in the blackness and Emma let him guide her onto the narrow bed.

 

“You just mind that you keep your hands to yourself,” he heard her mutter, as she slipped her legs under the sheets next to him.  

 

“Ah I am afraid I have left one of my hands on the shelf by the door. Is there another attachment you would prefer?”

 

“Very funny.”

 

He scooted over to the far edge of the bed to make room for her, but even then, there was little room to spare. He felt the tips of her hair brush against his cheek as she twisted and turned in an attempt to make herself comfortable in the narrow space beside him. Killian felt Emma’s long legs cozy up next to his under the sheet, though the comforter appeared to be trapped in a mess around her hips, but it was the sensation of small ice cubes being pressed to the exposed skin on his ankle that had him yelping.

 

“ _Bloody hell_ , Swan! Your toes are freezing!”

 

“I did warn you!”

 

“Do you not have stockings?”

 

“Yes, but that would require getting redressed in the dark.”

 

Fair point. Emma was more likely to break a toe searching for the garments, and with his own socks strewn somewhere on the floor by his bag, there wasn’t much he could do.

 

“Here.”

 

He wrapped his toes around her frigid ones, letting her steal some of his heat. She scooted closer at the feeling, her arms curled up at her chest as they lay on their sides, almost nose to nose. If he hadn’t heard the sheets move, he would have been surprised when her hand reached across to rest at the spot where his collarbone met pillow. As it was he had to force himself not to jump; her slender digits felt like icicles against his warmth.

 

Her entire body relaxed into the sheets after a moment. If the growing tension over the events of the last two days had seemed palpable before, it’s release now was equally so. He could feel the tension leaving her form in degrees, the stiffness that she always seemed to carry in her limbs abating. She hadn’t even bothered to pull the sheets over herself, the heat generated by the two bodies enough now. Perhaps she was still considering her escape back to her own bed.

 

Outside, the wind was howling fiercely. The storm had picked up again, and with every heavy gust that whipped around the corner of the building came an eerie moan that made it seem as though it would be the structure’s last. It was a sound he had become well acquainted with over the years, but he couldn’t imagine it had ever been the same for Emma.

 

Even with the small tidbits he had gathered already, he had gleaned that she had lived a life he could only have dreamed about as a child, having grown up in near poverty himself. His brother had done his best to ensure that they always had a roof over their head, but sometimes that had been all it was, a roof. It had never been as bad as it could have been, and Killian had always been grateful for it, but there were still days as a young lad that he had gone into the city with his brother and oogled at the splendor of Buckingham Palace. That was a real roof, and he was certain that no occupant had ever had to worry about leaks during heavy rainfall or unwelcome creatures making their way in through the cracks.  It seemed silly now, but there was still something to be said for a good home, with thick walls and a sturdy roof.

 

It was almost incredible that the mild mannered woman lying next to him would have seen so much and had been forced to give it all up. But Emma was strong. He had learned at least that much, and if anyone was going to survive the turmoil of the inevitable revolution only to run straight to a continent being pulled apart by war, it was her. She would do it, and do it well. Emma was incredible like that.

 

Her hand moved to his chest, brushing against the thin silver chain that hung there.

 

“What is that?” She murmured, her fingers trailing the strand down the hollow of his neck. His fingers met hers at the point where the simple silver ring rested, nestled in soft coils of dark chest hair.

 

“It was my mother’s wedding ring,” he whispered.

 

“You wear it all the time?”

 

“Yes. Ever since she passed away.”

 

Her nimble fingers continued to explore the thin band, feeling every ridge set in it. It was by no means the most glamourous of rings - his parents hadn’t been wealthy and the bit of money that his father did earn was always immediately wasted on booze. But it had still belonged to her, and so it was perfect.

 

“It is beautiful.”

 

His heart swelled with pride and affection. He wondered if she could feel it racing in his chest every time her fingers brushed against him. Surely she must.         

 

Killian raised his hand in the dark, moving it to hover just above where he imagined her left shoulder would be. Perhaps it was the fact that it had been so long since he had lain with - well, next to - a woman, or perhaps it was the bit of rum that he had sipped outside the bedroom door, but a moment later, the tips of his fingers were brushing the strands of hair from her face.

 

It was the barest of touches, but Emma’s breathing seemed to catch slightly. His offer to let her share his bed had been genuine and innocent, but he hadn’t foreseen what it would be like to have her in such close proximity, to have the scent of her soap filling his lungs, to have her hands against his chest. All of the emotion that he had felt on the platform that morning seemed to rush back with a vengeance. He wanted to lean forward the extra few inches, close the already diminishing gap between them. If the way her cheeks began to heat against his touch was any indication, Emma was having similar thoughts.

 

He leaned in, and for a brief moment, he felt the slight brush of soft lips against his. It was immediately intoxicating - a shot of morphine to the veins - and as he tilted his head forward again and felt his nose bump hers, he only cursed himself that he couldn’t see to properly kiss the living daylights out of her. He let his hand gently brush down her side to where the blankets were bunched at her hips. He wasn’t sure what he was doing - his mind felt like cotton, his heart beating too quickly. A rush of heat went straight to his loins and he cursed himself for being so responsive.

 

All of a sudden he felt her tense beneath his fingers and his hand came up in an instant. It was unnerving not to be able to see her expression in the dark, and it didn’t help that Emma wasn’t exactly forthcoming with her feelings on a good day.

 

“What is the matter, Swan?” He whispered, his eyes wildly searching the dark for hers. He barely cared that his voice sounded half wrecked already. God, it really had been too long.

 

“Nothing.”

 

A lie. His heart, still beating frantically, began to sink.

 

“What are you afraid of?”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

He knew the bluntness of his question would put her off, would possibly make her retreat further behind her walls, but he needed to know. Despite his earlier thoughts, something still nagged at him about her behaviour. Perhaps she hadn’t been lying before, but it hadn’t been the full truth either. It was time to address the elephant in the room.

 

“The train earlier, and when we arrived outside the hotel. Just now. You keep pulling away from me, and for the life of me, I cannot understand why. What have I done?”

 

“Nothing. It is as I said, I simply have a lot on my mind.”

 

“Emma,” he spoke softly, almost pleading. “I know. And I do not expect you to tell me all of your secrets. But please, I just want to help.”  

 

“The landlord believes me to be a prostitute.”

 

Her equally quiet tone was almost flippant, as though she were trying to brush off her own concerns, but Killian saw through it immediately. The words brought him back to what she had said before, about protecting his dignity, and her hesitation about sharing quarters with him again. It hadn’t been her status as a person of interest that had had her digging her heels into the sidewalk. It was a very different sort of status that had caused her unease.

 

Suddenly, the entire exchange with the receptionist made sense. The woman - the landlord, apparently - had noticed the lack of a ring on her finger and had said something.

 

_How could he have missed that?_

 

Sure, most of their rules of strict propriety had been thrown out the window when they had both practically become fugitives of the law, but that did not mean that the rules of society ceased to exist. And said rules were particularly stringent on the terms with which a man and a woman could associate with one another. Just because he had willingly abandoned convention did not mean that Emma had.  

 

“Does that bother you?” He asked, realisation dawning on him. “I apologize if it made you uncomfortable.”

“You do not need to apologize. You were right, before. It _was_ quick thinking.”

 

“If it is all the same, I would still like to apologize. I can see that the insinuation bothers you, even if it was only a ruse.”

 

“Thank you. It is only that....” She trailed off, and Killian wished more than ever that he could see the emotions in her eyes as she spoke, that he could better decipher what her words meant. “I do not want you to see me like that. _As_ that.”

 

“I think I understand. And I do not see you as that. I never have. Whatever this is, whatever we are together, it is as much up to you as much as it is me. I will never ask for more than you are willing to give. You have my word, Emma.”

 

“Thank you, Killian,” she whispered, her tone serious.

 

He could tell that Emma wasn’t convinced and he could practically hear her mind swirling with thoughts that he wasn’t privy to. If she would only tell him, perhaps he could help.

 

His hand was still hovering over her hips, and he fumbled in the dark for a moment until he managed to find the end of the heavy duvet and tug it up over her body. Emma immediately tucked her chin under the warm cover, his hand grazing her soft jaw at the movement as he pulled his arm back to his side.

 

“What if the landlord walks in and catches us like this?” She sounded half asleep, her words thick and heavy in her mouth.

 

“I expect I would have to scold her for disturbing my slumber with my wife.”

 

Killian’s mind began to fill with worry as the seconds wore on and Emma gave no response to his rather forward suggestion of feigned matrimony. It was only when he heard a faint sigh that he realised that she had fallen asleep. She had heard him, no doubt, but whether or not she would recall the conversation tomorrow, he had no idea. He hoped so. He had no intention of taking it back.

 

Indeed, the words had spilled out without prompting, much as they had on the train to the officer. It was as though an instinct kicked in every time Emma came under threat, and he was immediately compelled to do something to help. It was a raw and powerful urge unlike anything he had ever experienced before. And then other times, a very different instinct overcame him, and he found himself fighting the urge to kiss her.

 

But as seemed to be the case every night since meeting Emma, with the darkness came a new wave of doubt, unsurety, and guilt. It was almost ridiculous that a lovely day spent with Emma should end that way. It reminded him of the more turbulent days of his youth, when the excitement of the liquor he used to sneak from the shipyard would wear off and the shame would begin to set in. Except his shame was not because of Emma - who could ever find reason to be ashamed of _her_? No, the shame he felt was purely for himself.      

 

For as much as the small voice in his head urged him toward Emma, urged him to take a chance, a stronger voice chastised him. Had he not pledged himself to Milah? No, they hadn’t exchanged vows, but that was a simple formality. They had agreed to love and cherish each other, and _only_ each other.

 

 _Until ‘death’ do us part,_ a small voice corrected.

 

No, no no. It was more than that. It had to be. His time with Milah had been passionate and perfect and _everlasting_. He had nothing left to give but his loyalty. He couldn’t take that away. Not now.

 

_It is not disloyal to be happy._

 

But that seemed almost a ridiculous thought; Killian Jones, living a life free of pain and guilt. He had been on his own for so long now, that the idea that he could share a bit of himself with another person was almost foreign to him. It would never be the same as it was before, though. He needed to remember that. He could never love someone else the way he had his Milah, of that he was sure. But being fond of someone else was not a damning thing, was it? He mightn’t ever be happy again, but perhaps he could be _content_ in the company of another.

 

Especially if that someone was Emma.

 

Killian closed his eyes. The exhaustion that had been growing ever since their encounter had begun to tug at the back of his mind as he realised how little sleep he had gotten since Petrograd. He had diligently watched over her as she slept the night before, just as he had promised, but now he could feel the heaviness of his eyelids. There was no reason to fight it anymore; he was exactly where he needed to be. Whatever feelings he had for Emma could wait- and for good or for poor, they were there. That said, if there was one thing that he was certain of, it was this; if given the chance to kiss Emma again, he would take it.

 

And with that, he let himself be pulled under the waves. The room faded from existence around him until all that remained was him and the sleeping blond, their limbs intertwined under the thick blanket.

  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merci again to my favourite cs shipper HelloTragic for kicking my butt into gear whenever I need it :)
> 
> Privet: Hi (informal)
> 
> Ochen Priyatno: It is a pleasure to meet you


	12. Chapter 12

 

* * *

 

 

_ The Arbat; March 16th, 1917. 10:06am. _

 

Emma Lebedeva was a liar. 

 

She had spent the entire morning the day before stewing over the very things that she knew Killian had suspected. Their relationship, the honesty that seemed to seep it’s way into every conversation, the emotion that seemed to underlie every touch, it had been too much. 

 

And so she had closed up and retreated behind her walls, behind the book that Ruby had given her as a goodbye present. If she was honest, she wasn’t even sure what the book was about. A fairytale of some sort perhaps? 

 

It was only when Killian had confronted her on the platform that Emma had forced herself to give up the silent act. She had taken one look at him, seen the sadness and worry in his eyes and had felt ashamed. It wasn’t his fault that she didn’t have a grip on her emotions. She had had to say something to ease his mind, so she had told him that her mood was due to her fears over her friends back home. A lame excuse that shamefully should have been true but wasn’t. 

 

And to be honest, she had heard his proposal that night as she had begun to finally doze into a dreamless sleep. Her heart had upticked at the words, but she had been too exhausted to let the words truly sink in.

 

Of course, that wasn’t true now, in the light of day. Her brain whirled with the possibilities that his plan entailed, and despite her earlier jest, she really wasn’t sure she could handle it. She certainly hadn’t been able to handle it this morning, when she had awoken to his arm draped over her waist, her nose nuzzling the hollow of his neck. 

 

Emma had gone completely stiff, only letting out a breath when she heard his soft snoring pick up again. She had forced herself to relax, to remember why she was there. The cold. The cold that had dissipated in the night, taking with it her excuses. But there had been no one to witnesses or to scold her for her weakness, and so she had closed her eyes again and let herself breath in his warm scent. He had smelled of clean soap and hint of spiced rum, even though his last drink had been hours earlier. Emma had wondered if the scent ever really left him, or if it was truly a part of him now. She remembered now the way his lips had been parted slightly, short puffs of breath escaping from between them in an easy rhythm. Lying there, her body hugged gently to his, Emma could have sworn that she could have spent a lifetime never doing anything but this.

 

But the sun had already begun to shine through the moth eaten curtains beside them, and Emma had been certain that Killian would wake soon. It had been a difficult choice, but the possibility of delaying the inevitable conversation involving what Killian had suggested last night had been too tempting, and so she had eased out of his gentle grasp. 

Rummaging through her bag as quietly as possible, Emma had picked out some fresh clothes and a bar of soap, dressing and washing before Killian could awaken. She had lingered in the doorway, watching the sleeping man’s chest rise and fall in deep slumber. He had looked peaceful, the stress of the journey gone from his face, his inky dark hair standing up at odd angles in places where it wasn’t plastered against his forehead. Perhaps their trip together was causing him more grief than he was letting on. The idea had filled her with guilt. 

 

She had left her bags in the room, just in case Killian awoke and feared that she had run off in the night. She couldn’t bear to wake with him and have that conversation today, and she hoped that he would understand that. It had been difficult, though, to pretend not to see the look of hurt on his face when he finally found her crouched in the hallway, fully dressed and packed for the day. No, she had been too busy attempting to look distracted by the book on her lap that had been opened to a random page, the last words he had spoken rattling around in her mind. 

 

_ His wife. _

 

Emma had played pretend as a child - of course, what child hadn’t? - but even then she had often let herself be carried away by the thrill of it all. She was older now though, and had since learned that fact and fantasy were often miles apart, but she still she couldn’t seem to shake sense of childish hope. But being with him like  _ that?  _ Even if it was only pretend, she couldn’t deny how easy it would be to become lost in those blue eyes. 

 

It had already been nearly too much for her. She had crawled into bed with him hoping to chase the chill from her bones, but instead she had been consumed by a heated desire that she had never felt before. And it scared her. She had been on her own for only two days now and she was already finding herself curled into the side of the first man she had met, laying her secrets bare before him. This had certainly  _ not _ been the plan. 

 

Emma had heard stories, of course, of women who had fallen quickly and deeply in love only to be left alone a few months later, their bellies swollen with children who would never be allowed to walk down the street with their fathers. The stories were carried by whispers of older maids, gossip from visiting royals who sneered at their relatives for their  _ indiscretion _ . Well, at least, that was always the word they chose for the men.  _ Indiscretion _ . The women were deemed whores and seductresses, looking for nothing more than a chance to sow the seeds of chaos into the roots of society. Emma had never felt anything but pity for those women, who had been shown kindness and whose only real mistake was in believing it to be genuine. How many women had swooned at the smile of a handsome man, sure that they had somehow beat the odds and had found their prince charming?  _ It is not like that _ , they would cry,  _ he is not like that. What we have is different. Special _ . Perhaps the years had made her cynical, but Emma rather thought that the men appeared more often to be the ones skilled in seduction.

 

Not that it had ever mattered for Emma; she had been made to promise her celibacy as part of her service to the Tsarina and hadn’t even seriously considered marriage. Indeed, she had half expected to one day take over for Granny. It hadn’t exactly been a set plan, but every time she had envisioned her future, if he always included the high ceilings and heavy chandeliers of Alexander Palace. Anything more had been vague and indescriptible, like a memory of a dream. 

 

How could she have anticipated her world crumbling apart so suddenly? And, indeed, how could she have ever anticipated Killian Jones?

 

He had appeared as an ocean of calm within the chaos, the only stationary object in an image filled with blurred motion and unfamiliar faces. She couldn’t help but gravitate toward him, his hand outstretched toward her, his smile friendly and understanding. She was on the run - she knew that - but something about being on the run with Killian Jones by her side was almost exhilarating. It would be a sad day when they finally had to part ways - him to return to his life back home, and her… Well, she’d think of something. Was it selfish that she wanted him to miss her once she left? 

 

Was she simply as naive as those other women had been? 

 

“Emma?” 

 

Her eyes flicked up to meet Killian’s. He was staring, his blue eyes wide. He had clearly asked her something and she had taken far too long to respond. It was only as she felt her face relax under his gaze that she realized she had been frowning. 

  
“I apologize. What were you saying?”   
  


“I was asking if you are finished with your tea.” 

 

Her eyes floated down to the teacup in front of her, the one clasped almost protectively between her long fingers despite the fact that it’s contents had gone cold long ago. She let go and allowed her hands to slide into her lap as the waitress who had been standing at her side reached forward to collect her dishes. She managed a weak smile as the woman moved on to clear Killian’s place. She could feel Killian’s eyes roaming over her, concerned, as he handed the waitress a fistful of money. “Are you alright, love?” 

 

“Yes,” she said, forcing her tone to be lighter. “I was just lost in my own thoughts.” 

 

“You seem to do that quite often,” he commented. Emma only shrugged. 

 

“I have a lot of thoughts.” 

 

She thought for a moment that he would push, much like he had at the station, but much to her relief, he let it go. 

 

“Well before I lost you again to your worries, I had also asked you where you wanted to go shopping.”  

 

Emma thinks. “There are some very fine men’s shops in this area.”

 

“And women’s?” 

 

“Why?” Emma teased, tilting her head to smirk at him. “Are you planning on wearing a gown to the party?”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Come now, Swan. If I must be dressed up to play a part in this horrible farce, then so shall you.” 

 

“I thought I was meant to be your tour guide, not your shopping assistant.” 

 

“Translator,” he corrected. “And you did say you would. Remember?” 

 

Those puppy eyes would damn her one day, she was sure of it. 

 

“Yes, I suppose I did,” she conceded. 

 

Killian paid for their meal and the pair set off toward the string of stores that ran the length of the arbat. Most of the stores on the street had been shut down and boarded up, but others had remained open, reaping the profits of their misfortuned competitors. Even in the dreariest of circumstances, the bourgeoisie remained in need of their luxuries, it seemed. 

 

Emma felt her stomach fill with butterflies. 

 

Trying to push the thought away, she began translating some of the store signs as they passed them under the guise of teaching him the language. He nodded along, politely repeating the pronunciations back to her. If he sensed her unease, he didn’t mention it, and for that she was grateful.    

 

“How about here?” He finally asked, stopping in front of a large building that appeared to house a small store in the front. 

 

“Here?” She examined the elaborate sign posted outside the door, written in elaborate scrawl that Emma vaguely recognized as French. There was no way to tell what exactly was sold inside - the windows had been shuttered to deter thieves and looters - but the pictures outside suggested that it was women’s clothing. Either way, it looked expensive. 

 

“Well, Swan,” he shrugged, noticing her skepticism, “everyone has to start somewhere.” 

 

“You are determined to make this as painful as possible,” she huffed, scowling. 

 

“Only for you, love,” he teased back. 

 

Killian held the door open for her as they entered, and immediately Emma was hit with the strong scent of formaldehyde. She was almost inclined to believe that someone had shattered a bottle of it on the carpet, but though it seemed to be radiating from every corner of the cramped store. 

 

The walls and stands were crowded with furs of every animal Emma could think of, some fairly exotic and rare. Though most of the products seemed to be coats, the shop was primarily a taxidermy shop, with stuffed animals covering every square inch of wall space. The largest item, a wolf’s head, was mounted on one wall, the jaws open and snarling, it’s beady black eyes seeming to follow the two customers around the room. 

 

“Not exactly what I had in mind, Swan,” Killian murmured, taking in the rather bold decor. 

 

“I deal in only the finest garments from Paris, I assure you.”

 

A tall woman wearing the fluffiest fur coat Emma had ever seen stepped out from behind one of the overcrowded racks, her heels clacking on the wooden floor. It was surprising that they hadn’t noticed her earlier. She was wearing more jewelry and makeup than most dignitaries Emma had ever met, and while her short hair might have been in vogue somewhere, it was hard to imagine that the alternating dark and white streaks had ever been. 

 

“You are British,” Killian noted with surprise.  

 

“Yes, yes. Very astute of you, darling,” she nearly cooed, sizing up the fellow Brit as though she were about to devour him.

 

“Now, tell me, what is it that I can do for you?” She asked, her teeth biting seductively at her rouged bottom lip. “A new coat, perhaps? I have plenty of options for a man of your  _ physique _ .” 

 

Emma wanted to cringe at the flirtation in her voice. It was a knee jerk reaction that had her blurting out her next words. 

 

“Me, actually,” Emma stated, clearing her throat when the saleswoman didn’t turn. “I am looking for something for myself.”    

 

“Swan,” Killian summoned, his eyes never leaving the raccoon-ish eyes of the store clerk. “Perhaps you would not mind if I waited by the door while Miss…?” 

 

“ _ De Vil _ , darling. Cruella De Vil.” 

 

“- while Miss ‘De Vil’ helps you with look around.” 

 

Emma nodded, though by the way Killian was still glaring at the woman, she was sure he had missed it. Still, a moment later, Killian was seated near the door and the woman - _Miss_ _De Vil_ \- was dragging her towards the back of the store, one boney hand curled tightly around her wrist. 

 

She was shoved, rather than placed, in front of a mirror, her bags taken from her hands and placed roughly on the floor. Before Emma could protest, she was being enveloped in a heavy fur coat, the weight of it almost enough to tip her off of her feet. The first coat was pure white, and Emma quite thought she looked like a polar bear raised on it’s hind legs, though she dared not tell Cruella that. The cranky woman would be liable to stuff her and hang her on the wall herself. The second was a deep, chocolate brown one, the third, a tacky purple. All of the coats she was presented were big and glamorous, no doubt suitable for a fancy evening out, but none of them managed to make her look as though she were anything but drowning in them. Besides, it was a dress she was really looking for.

 

“I am trying to  _ help _ you, darling,” came Cruella’s exasperated groan when Emma handed over yet another reject, “and here you are, drooling over blue-eyes over there.” 

 

Emma turned immediately to glance at the man in question, who was still seated patiently on a chair by the door. It was true that she had been watching him in the reflection of the mirror over her shoulder, but she couldn’t help it. Killian seemed to be just as displeased with the merchandise in the shop as she was, making faces each time he discovered a new and horrible creature wedged in between the coats. His nose was currently adorably wrinkled in disgust at a ferret that had been posed in a position of attack, it’s razor sharp nails held at the ready. 

 

“We are not together. He is my brother.” 

 

“Oh I sincerely doubt that,” the woman huffed in response, following Emma’s gaze. “Unless, of course, you are in the habit of  _ sleeping _ with your brother.” 

 

Emma’s heart plummeted into her stomach, her face flushing in embarrassment. “I have not-  _ We _ have not-” 

 

Cruella paid no attention to her stuttering, instead reaching down to grab her right hand, then her left in her own. “And no ring,” she sighed in mock disapproval. “I cannot say that I am surprised at that either.” 

 

The blond said not a word, too humiliated to react. It did not stop the witch from continuing, the amusement in her voice rising. 

 

“Which only leaves ‘escort’,” she concluded. “And a poorly dressed one at that.” 

 

Emma was practically seething in rage, the fury inside of her burning hot as the moment finally caught up to her. 

 

“Do you speak this way to all of your customers?” Emma accused, her teeth clenching tightly. 

 

“Do not be so foolish as to think that  _ you _ are my customer,” the painted woman laughed, turning her hungry gaze back to where Killian was seated. “ _ He _ is.”

 

The hairs on the back of Emma’s neck were standing on end now. The woman in front of her was resembling a shark more and more as each minute passed, with her dark eyes and wicked, toothy grin. Of course she had set her sights on Killian the moment they had walked in. Even if his wallet weren’t as full as it she knew it was, Emma thought that his good looks alone would have been enough to catch her predatory gaze. Cruella De Vil probably chewed up and spat out men for a living, leaving nothing behind but crocodile tears and makeup stained handkerchiefs as she swooned into the lap of her next beau.   

 

Whether it was the ruckus of their argument or the feeling of eyes on him that drew his attention Emma did not know, but a moment later, Killian was strolling up to them, his brow pinched in concern.

 

“Is everything alright?” He asked, his eyes flicking to the devil woman before settling to look at Emma. “Swan?” 

 

“No,” Emma replied slowly, trying to regain her composure. She had trained her entire life in the art of handling vile and arrogant people. She could do it again. “In fact, I think that we should leave.” 

 

“Oh dear,” Cruella tutted, rolling her eyes dramatically. “You see? I have made her all weepy!” 

 

Despite her even breaths, Emma saw red again as the saleswoman turned her attention to Killian again, practically swaying into him as placed a hand on his chest. 

 

“Come now,” she chided, her voice like black venom, “a chiseled chin like yourself could surely afford someone with a bit more class, could he not? Hmm? Allow me to make some suggestions.” 

 

She raised her other hand up as if to touch his face, but before she could, his own intercepted it in midair. 

 

“That will not be necessary,” he spit out, jaw clenched in anger. Emma had never seen him so upset, not even when he had been face to face with the soldier. Granted, the soldier would have likely killed them both on the spot if he had dared to intervene further. Still, it was surprising to see the darkness and the danger that lurked just beneath the surface of Killian Jones’s handsome face. 

 

He turned to her then, and for a moment Emma thought that he was going to direct some of his anger toward her. Instead, his face went soft, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Before Emma could ask him what the look was for, he was moving toward her, slow and purposefully, until they were practically nose to nose. 

 

Emma froze, her wide eyes flickering between his.  _ What was he doing? _

 

Instead of an answer, Killian only pressed in closer, dipping his head to the side until his lips were at her ear. 

 

“Emma, darling,” he purred in her ear, loud enough that Cruella was sure to hear every word. “I would not use these rags to polish my shoes. In fact, I am not certain that Ms. DeVil did not simply skin a stray dog to get such matted fur for garments.” 

 

Over his shoulder, Emma watched as the devil woman practically vibrated in outrage. Cruella De Vil was a woman who was clearly unused to not getting what she wanted, nor losing out to a perceived rival. Killian was hitting her where it hurt. Emma gave her a smirk, her heart racing slightly in her chest. 

 

Entirely aware of the effect he was having on the witch, Killian leaned in to brush a soft kiss to the blond’s temple, letting his lips linger there. 

 

“Shall we take our business elsewhere?” 

 

“Absolutely,” Emma agreed, pulling back to give him a flirtatious smile. 

 

Without a further glance at the enraged saleswoman, Emma collected her bags from where they had been tossed on the floor. Killian offered her his outstretched hand as usual, though he placed a quick kiss to her knuckles as an extra flair of affection. Emma could practically hear Cruella’s teeth crack from grinding as he led her out of the store, his prosthetic at her hip.

 

The moment they had turned the corner and were safely out of view of the shop, the pair erupted in giggles.  

 

“You did not have to do that.” 

 

“Yes, I did. To not have done would have deprived me of the chance to see that woman turn purple.” 

 

Emma laughed again at that. “She did look very upset,” she agreed. 

 

She glanced down the street they had turned onto. It was quieter and more narrow than the main boulevard they had just been on, but there were still a few shops scattered amongst the residential buildings. 

 

“Where to next?” Killian asked, following her gaze. 

 

Emma sighed. “I am not sure. Perhaps we should begin shopping for you instead, now,” she suggested.     

 

“Nonsense, Swan,” he scoffed. “We will find you something. Everything we need is right in front of us.”

 

Sure enough, the very next store they entered carried some of the finest dresses that Emma had ever seen outside of a royal wardrobe. The seamstress - a self proclaimed ‘fairy godmother’, despite the fact that she couldn’t have been much older than Emma - had quickly ushered them in, piling Emma’s arms full of soft fabrics and precious silks. Even without asking, Emma knew that they would be well outside of her budget (not that she had really even accounted for ball gowns in her budget), but upon seeing the look of encouragement and glee on Killian’s face, she hadn’t had the heart to refuse to try them. 

 

And so she allowed herself to be dragged behind a partition to be poked and prodded at by the brunette, her fussy hands tugging the existing garments from her body before pulling the first gown over her head. Even as the last buttons were being done up at her back, Emma was struck by the change in her look. It had been a while since she had worn anything other than her maid clothing, and Emma briefly questioned whether the young, aristocratic woman in the mirror was really herself. The pale pink silk fell in light folds down her body, cinched at the waist with a similarly pink sash. The shallow collar and frilly shoulders were sweeter and more girly than anything she would have ever envisioned herself wearing. Emma tilted her head and watched as the woman in her reflection did the same. She looked...

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Emma asked, surprised at the firmness in the brunette’s voice. 

 

“No. Pretty, but not for you.” She nodded toward where Killian was likely lingering by the front door. “You want to leave him speechless, yes?”

 

Emma blushed. She shouldn’t have been surprised by yet another assumption of their relationship, but rather than argue it again, she simply nodded in agreement. Besides, a more conspiratorial part of her  _ did _ want to leave him speechless. Before she had a chance to say another word, the seamstress had started undressing her again, hanging the pink dress on the back of the storage door. 

 

It was the fourth gown that made Emma gasp as she turned to face the standing mirror. The deep red was striking against her fair hair, and Emma was sure that she had never looked so bold. The dress hugged every contour of her torso perfectly, as if the dress had been made for her. The fabric draped down to her calves, and as she twirled slowly in front of the mirror, the dress swayed heavily around her. The neckline was generous, dipping down into a low ‘v’, leaving her collar open and exposed, her shoulders barely covered in a thin mesh of woven gold strands. Emma took in the deepest breath that the gown would allow her, the excitement making her heart flutter. It was perfect. 

 

She had known that any gown from the shop would cost a small fortune, but hearing the seamstress recite the price still made her outwardly cringe. Pulling out all the stops and using every bit of tactical knowledge she had picked up from years behind palace walls, she managed to barter the price down somewhat. It was still more money than she had ever spent on an item of clothing and purchasing the dress would surely lighten her purse some, but she had already spent too much time searching for gowns today and she would be damned if she was about to let Killian step in and pay for her again. He had already taken the bill for everything else on the trip, and it was because of him that she even had enough money to spare in the first place. 

 

Stripping out of the gown, she quickly redressed as the seamstress began packing her purchase in soft linen sheets. The paper that she normally used for wrapping had long run out, the woman explained, and with supplies running scarce, she hadn’t been able to obtain more. Emma nodded her understanding, tucking the carefully wrapped bundle into her bag. The woman made to move out from behind the partition when Emma’s hand shot out to stop her. 

 

“Would you mind if I paid you here?” She asked, keeping her tone light. “I would not wish for my husband to know how much of his money I am spending.” 

 

The seamstress looked amused, but accepted the bills that Emma place in her hands. “He is very good to you,” she remarked, tucking the money away into a pouch. Emma smiled. 

 

“He is,” she agreed. 

 

Bidding the woman farewell, she stepped out from behind the screen and made her way over to where Killian was seated by the door. He jumped up immediately, the look of expectancy clear on his face. 

 

“No luck?” He asked, noticing her empty hands. 

 

“On the contrary,” she replied happily. “I think I have found just the thing.” 

 

Emma had half expected his look of disappointment to lessen at her reassurance, but his slight frown lingered, confirming her suspicions. He had expected to pay for her.    

 

“Is everything alright?” She asked, challenging him to say the words she knew were on his mind. 

 

“Yes, yes of course,” he replied, his shoulders relaxing in defeat. She had won this round, it seemed.

 

Emma smiled back politely. “Shall we go?”

 

The streets were slowly becoming busier now, with people in a hurry to make use of the last few hours of sunshine before the city would be plunged into darkness. 

 

Just as he had the day before, Killian was taking his time as he walked through the city, marveling in even the smallest of details. He seemed fascinated with the life in the city, smiling politely at passersby and stopping every so often to oogle at the architecture of a building. Even though he had visited Moscow before, Emma doubted he had spent much of the time on foot - Will didn’t seem like the type of person to have much patience for walking. It was somewhat adorable to see the businessman so clearly out of his element, and enjoying himself, no less. 

 

She finally called him out on it as they passed through a miniature park, catching him grinning ear to ear as they watched a snowball fight erupt amongst a group of small children that had been building a tower of snow. 

 

“If you want to go play with them, you need only ask,” she teased in his ear.

 

Killian scoffed but didn’t take his eyes off of the playing children.  “I am far too old for such nonsense.” 

 

“Nonsense?” Emma pretended to look affronted. “You cannot expect me to believe that you never engaged in such ‘nonsense’ as a child.”

 

“Ah, but it would be the truth, I am afraid.”

 

Emma blinked at him in disbelief.

 

“No.” 

 

“What?” He asked, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Emma continued to gape at him. 

 

“Have you really never played in the snow before?” 

 

Killian simply shrugged. “It never appealed to me.” 

 

“Truly?”

 

Another shrug.

 

Before she could think too much about her actions or their consequences, she attacked. Her fist had formed a tiny ball from the small amount of snow she had managed to collect in her haste. Her snowball hadn’t been thrown, so much as thrust into his hair as he attempted to duck away. The next ball had missed completely.

 

“ _ Why, you…! _ ”

 

He made to grab her, but Emma was quick on her feet and danced just out of reach. She picked up another handful of snow just as a large glob of it connected with her shoulder, making her squeal with laughter. She threw her handful blindly in his direction, barely turning to see if it had landed. By the sound of the resulting ‘oof’, it had found its target. 

 

Just as she made to turn and lob another pack of snow, she felt a pair of strong arms lift her by her waist, and a moment later she was dangling in a fireman’s lift over Killian’s shoulder.

 

“Do you give up?” He taunted, gripping her legs awkwardly with only one working hand.

 

“Why would I do that when I am winning?” 

 

She shoved the snowball that she had managed to hang on to up the back of his coat, making him gasp at the sudden cold. She braced herself, worrying momentarily that he would drop her on her head, but he managed to set her down on her feet before reaching behind him to remove the snow. 

 

Emma giggled, taking a quick step back to remain out of reach. But her shoes has started to dampen in the deep snow, making them slip from under her and almost immediately she found herself on her back, staring up at the sky. Killian was on top of her the next moment. 

 

“Normally, I would prefer to do other more enjoyable activities with a woman on her back,” he said with a wink, a devilish grin spreading across his face.

 

“I bet you would,” she teased, giving him a look to distract him as she discreetly shoved her free hand into the snow. 

 

“Can I let you in on a little secret, love?” He whispered in her ear, making her shiver. She was grateful that he couldn’t see the flush that was threatening to colour her face. 

 

“What?” She breathed out. 

 

“I  _ have _ played in snow before. I simply wanted to see what you would do.” 

 

Emma gasped as he pulled back slightly to observe the look of betrayal on her face. “You  _ liar _ !” 

 

“Now, now, love. Do not be-“

 

She pounced, shoving a perfectly rounded snow ball down the exposed collar of his jacket. His eyes immediately widened as he pushed backward to sit on his heels, howling as he tried to shake the quickly melting snow from his clothing. Emma took her chance and leapt at his vulnerable form, shoving him into the deep snow and leaping to pummel him with more snowballs.

 

He giggled as he begged for mercy from her, his feeble attempts at flicking snow at her missing their mark at the awkward angle. They were both covered head to toe by the time they finally untangled themselves, both giggling and panting like the schoolchildren they had been watching. After agreeing on a truce of sorts, they collected their things and made their way out of the park, brushing snow off of each other as they went. Their bags had mercifully been left untouched where they had been dropped, though the pair were in far too good of a mood to care, walking arm in arm through the rapidly crowding street. 

 

It was only when Killian dragged her to a halt in front of a glitzy looking jewelry store that Emma realised that she’d been too busy grinning at him like a foolish teenager that she hadn’t even noticed where they were headed. 

 

“I do not need anything,” she protested immediately, her stomach dropping as she mentally tallied up her remaining funds. The dress, she could manage. But this place? 

 

“That might be,” Killian replied easily, “but I am afraid I must still find a gift for our hostess, and Will informed me that Anastasia is quite partial to jewelry.” 

 

Emma’s good spirits deflated. 

 

“Oh.” 

 

Of course he would need to bring a gift to the party tonight - it was only customary. It didn’t hurt one bit to know that he had been thinking of their mysterious hostess and that he was not, in fact, attempting to spoil her again. No, not one bit. 

 

Emma followed him into the shop, the little bell above her dinged cheerfully as she entered. Much like the others had, this shopkeeper immediately made a beeline for Killian. Though, something told her that they would receive less scrutinous looks and flirtatious winks from the short, stout man who waddled over. 

 

Feeling slightly uncomfortable being the only non paying customer in the room - and being, quite frankly, entirely uninterested in whatever trinket Killian chose to bestow on Will’s sweetheart - Emma wandered the rows of glass cases, peering inside at the luxurious pieces. Just by looking at them she could tell that most were well above her price range. Intricately woven bands of gold and silver encircled sparkling jewels of various sizes and colours, none exactly identical to the other. A few looked almost exquisite enough to sit on the hand of some of the nobles back at the palace, and Emma had to wonder how a store such as this survived in such an impoverished region. She suspected that she didn’t want to know. 

 

One case at the far end of one table stood open, an array of beautiful, yet simpler necklaces, rings and pendants splayed out on silk cloths. Running her fingers over the precious metals, Emma picked up one with a thin silver band, supporting a large, pale green stone at it’s peak. It was certainly unique in design, the soft colour clean and simple, yet no less lovely than the rest. It reminded her of the wedding ring her mother had used to wear, the green a near match. Without giving it much thought, Emma slipped the ring on to her right hand. 

 

The sight made her let out a low gasp. It fit perfectly, the silver cool and weighted against her skin. Even in the poor lamplight, the green gem seemed to glitter and sparkle. She stared, transfixed, as she imagined herself standing at an altar, the image of the dark haired groom beside her blurred slightly through tears of happiness. It felt as otherworldly as a dream, but with all the certainty of a memory. She could almost feel the ghost of his hand grasped in hers, their fingers interlaced as the blue eyed man bowed his head to brush his lips against the smooth skin of her knuckles. 

 

“It is lovely.” 

 

Emma nearly jumped a foot in the air as she whipped around. It was the store clerk, his eyes wide and encouraging as he glanced between her face and the ring perched on her raised right hand. She looked past him to where Killian was standing to find him already gazing back at her, his face filled with wonder and another emotion that she couldn’t quite decipher. 

 

Suddenly, there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room, her heart constricting tightly in her chest. 

 

“I am afraid it is not really ‘me’,” she rushed out, nearly clawing the delicate piece from her finger and handing it over to the jeweler with a bit more force than necessary. He took it, surprise apparent on his face. 

 

Barely looking at her companion, Emma picked up her bags from where she had laid them down by her feet and made for the exit. 

 

"You can finish up here,” she called out over her shoulder, her voice nearly trembling.  _ Why was it trembling? _   “Come find me outside when you are done, yes?”

 

She yanked the door open, the bell above chiming as a burst of fresh air entered the shop. Just as the door swung shut, she heard Killian’s faint voice echo from behind her. 

 

“As you wish.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm so sorry about how long it took for this one to be posted! I've been super busy and this chapter just started to get away from me. Many thanks to @HelloTragic for giving me that final push to get this one done. 
> 
> Next chapter: the party!


	13. Chapter 13

 

_The Arbat; March 16th, 1917. 4:48 pm._

 

As soon as the door clicked shut, Emma felt the air returned to her lungs. It was bitter cold again now, and the chill nipped at her throat, but it felt almost refreshing in contrast to the nervous energy coursing through her.  

 

_What the hell had that been?_

 

Her daydreams were getting out of hand. A simple trinket should not have been enough to send her into a spiral of fantasies and half-hopeful wishes about her future. She wasn’t a child.

 

And the _look on his face_ ! She had never been looked at like that before. And the worst part was that, for a second, she had actually _welcomed_ it. Before the panic had gripped her, she had relished the way his eyes had been fixed on her form, his attention completely captured by her. It had sent a thrill down her spine to know that she had affected him in such a way - and so publicly too. Had the horrible Cruella De Vil woman been right? Had she really missed the way that they looked at each other?

 

Emma was already midway through a spiral of theories - each coming to a single, heartracing conclusion - when the door opened a minute later and Killian Jones stepped out into the snow. She let out a breath, her shoulders dropping as she faced him.

 

“Are we done?”

 

She knew she sounded like a petulant child, but she couldn’t help it. The day had already been so long and her nerves were nearly shot.

 

“Yes, love,” he assured her, patting his breast pocket. “A pair of earrings I thought would suit her. Would you like to have a look?”

 

For a reason she wasn’t quite ready to admit out loud, Emma couldn’t bear the thought of looking at the present he had bought for the hostess.

 

“I am certain she will love them,” she said simply, hoping her smile was less of a grimace than it felt. Unwilling to find out if she had successfully fooled him, she took off at a swift pace in the direction of their hotel.

 

They were halfway back when Emma suddenly stopped in her tracks, turning to face her companion.

 

“We forgot to pick up something for you!”

 

Killian chuckled at the horror on her face. “No need to worry, Swan. I have everything I need.”

 

“But your evening clothes…,” she began, confused. Killian only waved her off.

 

“I have a suitable set already. It was the gift that was most important,” he explained. “And your dress, of course.”

 

“Oh.” Emma blinked. They had wasted nearly an entire day shopping for _her?_ Well, if that didn’t make her heart flutter a bit. She’d never had a shopping day just for her before. She had always been the one at the side lines, holding the purchases and minding the children. And she’d definitely never had anyone pay for her purchases before.

 

If it had been anyone else, Emma was certain she would have high tailed it across town already, bags forgotten in the snow. It was the first thing that the gossiping maids had told her back at the palace; the men always started with the gifts. It was the warning that had since made her cautious of every slight gesture, every miniscule offer that had been made to her by any visiting gentleman to the palace. Everything came with a price, and Emma was not going to be the one to pay it.

 

But the palace maids had clearly never met Killian Jones. There wasn’t an ounce of malice in his gestures toward her, no indication that his gifts would need to one day be repaid in any way he’d see fit. The day had been for her enjoyment, and hers alone. Just as Emma was becoming more certain that the evening’s events would be for her entertainment as well.

 

If his goal was simply to ensure her own happiness, who was she to deny him?

 

Whether it was the nerves or excitement, she didn’t know, but Emma found herself walking with a slight spring in her step as they made their way back to the hotel room. If Killian noticed, he didn’t say anything, though by the way he kept shooting her curious looks from the corner of his eye, he’d caught on to the new lightness in her mood.

 

Killian changed first, emerging in a classic black evening suit with a grey vest and a blue silk tie. A decorative gold chain clasped the suit jacket together around his lower abdomen, adding a touch of finesse to his appearance, though Emma thought it didn’t do much to dampen the roguish twinkle in his eye. Even all dressed up, he was still _Killian_.

 

He excused himself to wait in the hallway while she changed, though not before playfully offering to lend a hand if she found herself in need of a handmaid’s assistance. Emma barely managed to get an eye roll in before he disappeared through the door, shutting it softly behind him as he went.

 

Removing the neatly wrapped parcel and setting it on the bed, Emma began to change into her new gown. It was more difficult to change into than it had been at the shop, not only because she didn’t have assistance - not that she would ever take Killian up on his offer - but because she couldn’t quite manage to keep her fingers from shaking with a mix of nerves and excitement. It had only been a few hours since she had last worn the dress, the image of herself in the mirror clear in her head, but she had to admit that she looked forward to wearing it again.

 

Excitement began to outweigh the nerves as she pulled on the dress, the fabric settling around her again. Perhaps a party was exactly what she needed; something to distract her from the chaos of the world. Killian had been nothing but incredible to her over the past few days, and even though the world had been shown to be staunchly against Emma Lebedeva, she was already certain that Killian Jones was not. He would have her back, no matter what the cost. Of that, she was certain. And if he believed she would be safe in the company of his associates, then Emma trusted him. If he wanted to spoil her and show her off to his friends, then she would oblige, happily. And she would knock his socks off while she did it.

 

It had been a long time since she had attended a party as a guest, and even longer since she had worn anything of such fine quality. Still, she had a few tricks up her sleeve from having helped many a mistress and dame re-adjust their hair and makeup on the spot.

 

Perhaps it was silly, but she couldn’t keep from smiling as she began working on her hair - styling it and restyling it a dozen times until she finally settled on a braided crown around her head. She had picked out a long back coat that wasn’t nearly warm enough for travelling, but would likely be passable for the evening’s dress standards. Still, she would keep the garment draped over her arm when she revealed her outfit to Killian - she wanted him to get the full effect.

 

Giving one last glance to her reflection in the mirror, she turned to collect her bags and placed her hand on the door handle that led to where Killian would be waiting in the hallway. Just as she made to turn the nob, she paused, letting the gravity of the moment wash over her.

 

She was in Moscow, standing in a hotel, wearing a beautiful dress, her hair dolled up in a way that she hadn’t been allowed to in so long. And for just a second - for one moment - nothing else mattered. Not the guard from the train, not the Bolsheviks that were calling for blood.

 

For just one night, she wouldn’t be Emma Lebedeva, a maid in the palace of nobles and bourgeoisie. She wouldn’t be the wallflower asked to remain silent in the shadows, collecting the children and ushering them off to bed down hidden passageways.

 

No, tonight, she was Emma Swan, and her dashing and handsome date was standing just behind this door awaiting her entrance.

 

She was ready.

 

Emma was sure she didn’t imagine the sharp intake of breath as Killian turned to look at her, his eyes widening. Her heart fluttered, her chest swelling with pride as he seemed unable to find words, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish on land. It had been a long time since she had had that sort of effect on a man, and Emma had to admit she liked it on Killian Jones. The deep blush that flushed his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he caught himself staring was a sight to behold.

 

He coughed once, as if to shake himself from his stupor.   

 

“Swan, you look…”

 

“I know,” she smirked, unable to suppress the smug smile that broke free. Every ruble spent on the dress had been earned back in full. “Now, where will Will be meeting us?”

 

“Will?” Killian’s voice nearly squeaked. Emma’s heart soared in her chest. The man looked wrecked. She would have to take pity on him or else they would never make it out of the hallway.

 

“Your business partner?” She reminded him, raising an eyebrow in amusement.

 

“Oh.” Killian blinked and, if possible, flushed a deeper scarlet. “Yes, right. He will be waiting for us us downstairs.”

 

“Then we should not keep him waiting.”

 

She held out her coat to him and he took it - likely on reflex alone, if the way his eyes never left hers were any indication. He moved behind her, helping her maneuver her arms into the long sleeves. Perhaps it was the fact that he had only one arm to assist him, but Emma thought he lingered a bit as he did so, his warm breath gracing the back of her exposed neck, his fingers brushing her shoulders as the fabric settled into place around her form.

 

Emma wasn’t certain what would have happened if Will hadn’t been waiting downstairs, if they didn’t have places to be, but the butterflies in her stomach gave her quite the clue. As it was, Emma found it difficult to step out of his arms and begin fastening her jacket.

 

Having recovered enough of his functioning to remember to offer the lady his arm, Killian led her out the room and toward the awaiting car downstairs. Will had already arrived and, upon seeing the pair descend down the short flight of steps, the driver leapt out to open the back door for them. Killian lingered, assisting Emma as she scooted into the back of the cab, taking care not to catch her dress on the seats. Once she was settled, Killian joined her, and the driver returned to his seat and started the car.  

 

Will was seated in the front, but he peered back to examine the new occupants.

 

“Ah, Miss Emma! You look lovely,” he exclaimed, nodding his approval at her dress. Emma smiled politely, running her hand over the long, flowing skirt as if to smooth the imaginary wrinkles there. He then turned to Killian, giving him a quick once-over.  “Jones… well, you are dressed and that is what matters. Shall we go?”

 

Killian rolled his eyes at his partner as Emma giggled. “Let us get on with it then.”

 

The car moved swiftly through the narrow alleyway, the sharp turns jostling the occupants a bit more than they would have liked. It didn’t last long, however, and a moment later the car swerved on to the much broader main road, plowing ahead at an even speed.

 

The sun had already set below the horizon, leaving the city in deep shadows. Even as they made their way through the heart of the city, Emma could only just make out the shapes of the dark homes and buildings that clustered together, looking withered and abandoned without the usual light from the windows. Many of the residents in this area would have to wait until morning for the gas hours to commence again.

 

It was as though they had stepped into another world when they arrived in the area where Anastasia resided. The same dark soot stained the bricks of the buildings here, too, however there was a distinct presence of life within them that the previous ones has lacked. Faint orange glows emanated from behind the curtains of several of the apartments, and even from within the car, Emma could hear the muffled sound of music being played as they pulled up in front of one of the residences.

 

Emma caught a quick shuffle of a curtain on the lower floor, and a moment later, a man with a thick, bushy mustache emerged and descended quickly down the front steps toward their car. Will got out and met him at the sidewalk, murmuring something to him and handing over what Emma thought was a few rubles. The man nodded once, before continuing toward the back of the car to remove their luggage. Killian had insisted on bringing their things. He’d explained that if something happened and they needed make a quick exit to keep her safe, they would want their belonging nearby.  Will gave the pair in the backseat a wave, and with the all clear, Killian disembarked, moving quickly to the other side of the car to open the door for Emma.

 

Eager to join the party, Will followed the footman inside as Killian lingered to pay the driver. Emma pulled the edges of her coat tighter around her frame as she waited, the anxiety of the situation crawling back up her spine. An idea had been nudging at her slowly throughout the day, spurred on by their little schrade earlier that morning. She had pushed it to the back of her mind, not wanting to add further complications to their already delicate facade, but now that she was moments away from entering the party, she seemed to have run out of time to make a decision. A roar of laughter deep within the building made Emma’s nerves jump as she watched the car drive away, though she had already schooled her features by the time Killian had turned to offer her his arm again.

 

They made it as far as the top landing before Emma finally came to a decision, her hand shooting out to stop Killian. He paused immediately, coming to a halt in front of the door.

 

“I have been thinking,” Emma started, pushing through her nerves, “about what you said last night. About being my - my husband.”

 

Killian quirked an eyebrow, though something told her he was already ahead of her. He _had_ been the one to suggest it in the first place. “What are you suggesting?”

 

_He was really going to make her say it?_

 

“I know I have asked so much of you already,” she continued on, rushing through her words “and I know this would mean lying for me again. But if you would... perhaps it would not be the worst idea if we…”  

 

She trailed off, pursing her lips as she prepared her next words. But she was stopped short when Killian let out a short affectionate sigh and reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a silver banded ring.

 

Emma couldn’t help but stiffen as the memories of the jewelry shop bombarded her mind again, a movement that Killian’s keen eye picked up on immediately. His hand came up in a placating gesture.

 

“Relax, Swan. I am not proposing. Not really, anyhow.”

 

“Right, of course.” She was absolutely not feeling disappointed by that fact. She took a closer look at the small, supposedly unthreatening piece and her eyes went wide with recognition. “Is that your mother’s ring?”

 

“Yes,” he replied easily, as though he hadn’t just easily offered up a family heirloom at a moment’s notice. Although, now that she thought about it, perhaps the decision hadn’t been so sudden.

 

“And you started carrying it around in your pocket instead of having it around your neck _when_ , exactly?” She accused, her eyes narrowing.

 

His guilty flush told her she wasn’t far off. “I had a thought I would need it,” he admitted, reaching up to scratch behind his ear.

 

Emma hummed noncommittally, choosing to let it go. She had bigger issues to deal with at the moment - namely, settling her racing heart to the point where she could slip the ring on to her finger without giving herself a full blown anxiety attack. She had asked for it, for Christ’s sake, and all he’d done was oblige. Eagerly, too. So why couldn’t she relax?

 

“Emma.”

 

She forced herself lift her eyes from where they seemed to be stuck on the silver band to meet his gaze. She regretted it immediately when she saw the uncertainty there.

 

“We do not have to do this. I know that that horrible woman’s words upset you, try as you might to deny it. I am only giving you this ring to wear so you can set aside your worries for tonight and perhaps even enjoy yourself.” He gave a small smirk at the last teasing words.

 

He was right, of course. And as much as he likely knew he was right, he was also giving her an out. Even standing here, dressed to the nines, Emma knew that Killian would cancel the evening at the drop of a hat if she asked. Because he wasn’t just any man; he was Killian Jones, and Killian Jones was ever the gentleman.

 

Which was exactly why she wanted to stay.

 

“I think I want that too,” she finally answered, her legs feeling a bit sturdier now. “To enjoy myself, I mean. I would be honoured to wear your mother’s ring tonight.”

 

Killian beamed, and again, Emma caught herself wondering what she wouldn’t do to keep that lightness in his features forever. “Well then, Swan. It would be my pleasure to lend it to you for the evening.”

 

Without further ado, Killian slipped the band over the ring finger on her right hand. To her surprise, it fit perfectly, the intricate piece glimmering even in the dim lighting. There was a ripple of nerves as the weight of it all started to settle in, but a moment later Killian’s fingers were tangled with hers and the weight from her chest disappeared.

 

“Are you ready, Swan?”

 

She blew out a nervous breath, the excitement returning as she thought of the evening ahead. Tonight was not a night for walls. “Yes.”

 

The sound of laughter and chatter filled the air the moment the door swung open. Killian had had to release her fingers momentarily to open the door, and Emma was grateful when his fingers found hers again. She was sure she was strangling the blood from them, though.

 

Every square inch of the room seemed to sparkle under the bright chandeliers that hung heavy from the high ceiling. The room was _enormous_. From the polished floors to the mirrors and bejeweled decorations on the walls, Emma felt as though she had been picked up and placed in one of the palace rooms back in Petrograd. She was sure there must have been a hundred people in the space, pockets of conversations dispersed throughout the room. A dance floor had been cleared in the centre of the room, and a dozen or so couples were twirling and twisting in each others arms as the musicians played off to one side.

 

The laugh of one particularly boisterous woman echoed loudly off the walls, followed by the sound of glasses clinking together precariously as a far too inebriated gentleman nearly toppled a waiter carrying an ornate drinks tray. The prohibition of alcohol seemed to have been forgotten at the doorway, and Emma felt herself relax slightly. The flow of drinks would only help dampen their memories of the mysterious woman that entered on the arm of the wealthy foreigner that night.  

 

They found Will easily enough, his booming voice and accent unmistakable in the crowd. His back was turned to the pair, and he was chatting with an elegantly dressed blond holding a champagne flute in one hand. Whatever he was saying, the woman clearly found it hilarious, a gloved hand coming up to cover her delicately painted lips as she broke into a fit of giggles. It was then that she noticed the pair approaching them.

 

“Killian,” she exclaimed, her heavy accent caressing each vowel. Emma tried not to flinch as the woman stepped forward and placed exaggerated kisses to each of his cheeks.

 

“Who is this?” Anastasia asked, her eyes finally breaking away from Killian’s to give Emma a once over. Emma gave a polite smile as Killian introduced her as Emma Nolana, his fiance. Even as the heiress stared her down, clearly examining her for any weaknesses, Emma held her own. Being inspected by aristocrats had been a near daily occurrence not too long ago, and the feeling of being judged was nearly second nature to her now.

 

The mention of the word “fiance” had Anastasia’s eyes dropping to Emma’s right hand in an instant, the hostesses face becoming immediately unreadable. Emma chanced a glance at where Will stood beside her, his own eyebrows rising at the sight of the ring. He said nothing, but Emma was sure that the pair would have hell to pay for later for their plan.  

 

“Oh, how wonderful!” She exclaimed after a moment, the cheer in her voice just a smidge too forced. “I’m so happy for you! Why did you not tell me sooner? I would have organized a party for you!”

 

“Now, now,” Killian said, shaking his head. “You know how I wouldn’t have wanted you to bother with all of that.”

 

“You always did like to play things close to the chest, I suppose,” Anastasia thought out loud to herself. “Isn’t that right, Will?”

 

“Indeed,” Will’s answered flatly. Oh yes, there would be words later.  

 

“We brought you something,” Killian continued, reaching into his breast pocket to produce the little wrapped parcel. Any sadness that had tainted her eyes at the news of Killian’s engagement vanished in an instant when he tore open the paper to reveal the earrings.

 

“Oh, you are such a darling!” She exclaimed, holding them up to watch the diamonds dance in the light. “Aren’t they just splending, Will? They will match perfectly with the bracelet you gave me. Won’t they?”

 

Will hummed in agreement, but his eyes remained fixed on the couple in front of him, taking in the way Emma was leaned into Killian’s side, and the way Killian seemed to be doing the same. The perfect picture of a happy couple that hadn’t existed mere hours ago.

 

“I nearly forgot,” she continued on, apparently blind to her beau’s change in mood, “there is a gentleman here that I want to introduce you both to. A _businessman_ , I should say. He specialises in antiques.”

 

Will furrowed his brow. “I’m not sure I understand what that has to do with us.”

 

“No,” she conceded, undeterred, “but he is currently in possession of some pieces that I have been _dying_ to get my hands on, and I think having your handsome faces by my side might help persuade him to strike a bargain in my favour.”

 

“Ah, well, I must apologize, but I did promise Emma that there would be no talk of business here tonight,” Killian lied smoothly. “Though I’m sure my business partner would be more than happy to help you. Isn’t that right, Will?”

 

Killian grinned at his friend as Anastasia turned her pleading doe eyes on him. Will seemed to soften under her gaze, and Emma heard the ‘yes’ before the word seemed to leave his mouth.

 

Anastasia clapped her hands together in delight. “Wonderful! Come along, now. Oh! But first -” She paused, one gloved hand gripping Will’s arm as she peered through the crowd, looking for someone. It only took a moment before she spotted her. “Anna, darling?”

 

A petite woman with long twin braids turned from where she had been conversing with a tall blonde man, her eyes lighting up as she caught sight of the hostess. “Anastasia!”

 

After a brief reunion of cheek kisses and “how do you dos,” Anastasia turned to introduce the newcomers as her Danish cousin and cousin-in-law. The blond man, Kristoff, smiled sheepishly at Killian and Emma as his animated wife pulled him closer to join in the conversation.

 

“This is Killian Jones, Will’s business partner that I told you about,” Anastasia continued to explain. “And I’ve just had the pleasure of making my acquaintances with his new fiance, Emma.”

 

“It’s a pleasure,” Anna exclaimed with more enthusiasm than Emma thought necessary. It wasn’t entirely involuntary that her hand on Killian’s arm squeezed tighter as the brunette drew closer, keen on inspecting the pair. “You look precisely as Anastasia described you!”

 

Both Killian and Anastasia flushed hard at the half-compliment, though the hostess was the first to speak. “Now, now, cousin,” she warned playfully. “Let’s not start with that.”

 

Anna’s own face turned beet red as she realised her mistake.

 

“Oh! No! She didn’t say anything about your looks. Not that there wouldn’t be anything to say, of course. There would be. Because you _are…_ you know… and Will is too, of course!”

 

It was Will’s turn to look mortified.

 

“Thank you, cousin,” their hostess managed out, before turning to place a reassuring hand on Will’s shoulder. “I think we ought to go introduce you to my dear antiquities dealer now, don’t you think, darling?”

 

“Yes, I think so,” Will agreed, before turning back to the group to address the Danish couple. “It was lovely to meet you both.” His eyes fell momentarily to where Killian stood, a promise of a serious conversation to come communicated in his gaze. She expected Killian to go stiff at the accusing stare, but when Emma peeked at him from the corner of her eye, he appeared only amused.

 

The couple disappeared into the crowd before another word would be said, leaving Killian and Emma alone with Anna and Kristoff. Almost immediately, as though she hadn’t spent the past few minutes with her foot deeply jammed down her own mouth, Anna turned her focus on Emma.

 

“That is a beautiful ring,” Anna gushes, staring pointedly at the band around her finger. “I’m sure you get a lot of compliments about it.”

 

Emma shuffled nervously, internally groaning that the attention had suddenly fallen so squarely on her shoulders. She wracked her brain, trying to come up with a lie that would sound convincing. In the end, she settled for the truth. “Yes, it belonged to Killian’s mother.”

 

“Oh, how romantic! How did he propose? I bet it was sweet.”

 

“Yes, well it was, er, _sudden_ , I suppose? We were out together and the moment just seemed… right.”

 

The woman seemed to deflate a bit at the bland answer, a hint of disappointment flashing across her face.  

 

“I think it’s safe to say that the moment caught us both by surprise,” Killian chimed in helpfully, rubbing a small circle in the palm of his faux-fiance’s hand.

 

“But it was _very_ special,” Emma added hurriedly, trying to salvage her answer. “And I know how much his mother’s ring means to him, and I feel lucky that I was the one he chose to give it to.”

 

“Indeed,” Killian agreed softly. “There is no other person I’d rather gift it to than my swan.”

 

Emma’s heart leapt in her chest at the nickname. One thing was for certain; Killian was a much better actor than she was. Even to her own ears, his admission rang true.

 

Anna’s face had filled with awe once more, one hand clasped over her heart. “I’m sure your mother would be very pleased with your choice.”

 

Killian smiled, giving a short nod in response. “As I’m sure your family is with yours,” he noted, nodding toward where Kristoff stood, listening silently from the side.

 

“I suppose we are both fortunate then,” the woman agreed.

 

Anna reached toward her husband to clasp his hand in hers as she beamed up at him, pure adoration in her gaze. He hadn’t said a word to the group, but it didn’t take much to see how much he adored Anna. He’d listened with rapt attention all throughout her rambling questions, his eyes not straying from her form for a moment. Whereas the young woman’s enthusiasm might have been overwhelming to some, Emma thought Kristoff seemed to take it all in stride. It was funny how love worked like that.

 

“If you ladies would not mind,” Killian finally began, “I am afraid I must steal my lovely Emma from you for a moment.”

 

“Oh! Of course! Please, do not let us keep you. Enjoy the party, Emma!”

 

Before Emma could so much as nod her thanks, she found herself engulfed in a tight embrace. She returned it the best she could, her one arm trapped awkwardly between them, but Anna barely seemed to notice. Just as quickly as it began, the giggly brunette pulled back, her attention fixed at something over Emma’s shoulder. “Oh Kristoff, look!” She exclaimed, scampering off in an instant to explore heavens knew what. Kristoff let out an affectionate sigh, but dashed off after his wife to find the source of her excitement.

 

Emma glanced at her own ‘husband-to-be”, expecting to see the same teasing look he had given Will when his partner had been ushered along by his own lady friend. Instead, she found Killian watching her, fondness making his blue eyes sparkle. Emma’s heart skipped a beat.

 

“What?” She asked, her cheeks reddening under his gaze. He shrugged, and Emma repeated her question again, nudging him playfully in the ribs with her elbow.

 

“Nothing,” he insisted, his smile growing. Just as Emma was considering ribbing him again, Killian reached down to take her fingers in his and led her across the room in opposite direction that Anna had disappeared to.

 

“You, my dear, are a terrible liar.”

 

Killian’s mouth was hot at her ear, his tone light and teasing.  

 

“On the contrary, I think my lies were perfectly adequate,” she countered, keeping her voice low. “Where are we going?”

 

“I thought it was about time I offered my lovely fiance a dance.”

 

Emma’s steps wavered as they approached the crowd of partners that had just finished a waltz, the men bowing and women curtseying as the musicians readied for the next set. By the time Killian had positioned them in the centre of the group, Emma’s feet were practically dragging across the floor.

 

“I cannot dance,” she admitted as Killian turned to place himself in front of her. Sure, she had seen plenty of dancing at the numerous balls held at the palace and had played around with some dance steps that Ruby had taught her on evenings that they had managed to get their chores finished early, but nothing like this. She wasn’t entirely looking forward to humiliating herself in front of everyone.

 

But as always, Killian wasn’t bothered in the slightest.

 

“Of course you can, Swan,” he encouraged, taking her left hand in his good one and nudging her other one to his shoulder. “Everyone can. There is only one rule.”

 

“And what is that?”

 

Killian grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Pick a partner who knows what they are doing.”

 

Emma rolled her eyes playfully. “Then we are in dire straits indeed.”  

 

“Oh, hush now,” he scolded, feigning offence. “Less moaning and more dancing, aye?”

 

Emma’s heart skipped a beat as her mind was filled with more pleasurable ways of eliciting moans from the man. Before she could respond with another clever retort, the music began and they were moving.

 

She would never admit it, but Killian was right; once she found her feet under her, her nimble partner’s guiding steps did most of the work. He led, she followed, and after a few moments, Emma found herself twirling and moving like the dancers around her. It helped that the abundance of alcohol had clearly dampened the skills of the other party guests. That, combined with the all of the warm bodies in the tight space of the dance floor, left everyone’s steps less refined than Emma thought typical.  

 

“Anastasia is quite the character,” Emma murmured low in his ear as she was pulled close on one move. “I can see why Will is fond of her.”

 

Killian chuckled. “She’s not that bad, Swan.”

 

Emma almost snorted at that.

 

“She was practically undressing you with her eyes,” she countered, stepping away again, following the music. “And it sounds as though she’s nearly said as much to Anna.”

 

“Anastasia is… unique,” Killian said after a moment. “She’s attracted to powerful men. Always has been. She has a talent for sniffing it out, and once she catches a whiff of it, she doesn’t let go easily.”

 

“And Will doesn’t mind that?”

 

“Will knows who Anastasia is. He’s known her longer than anyone, and he sees the good in her. She hasn’t always been like… the way she is now, and I think Will holds out hope that one day she will return to who she once was.”

 

“Do you think that’s possible? To go back to who you once were?”

 

Killian shrugged. “I suppose the party, the gifts, and the prestige must run out somewhere. And when it does, I would hate for Anastasia to have forgotten what it was like when none of those mattered. When she was as she was before.”

 

Emma nodded, half in agreement. Though Killian hadn’t been talking about her, she felt her heart sink slightly at the stark reminder his words brought; the party would end somewhere, and everything would return as normal. Their dance now was on a timer, as was their time together in Moscow. Eventually, all would end and they would go their separate ways. Killian would return home to England with Will, back to his home and his job. Maybe he would be sad to see her go, maybe he would even promise to write to her, but eventually Emma would be on her own again.

Because no matter how many dresses Killian bought her, no matter how many times they put on their scharade of being a young couple in love, she was not his “Swan.” She was Emma Lebedeva, a fugitive in the eyes of the people, and a woman caught up in a world that she had never had any power in.

 

It wasn’t fair.

 

They continued to dance, though Emma’s feet had become more clumsy with her thought being dragged off to darker places. She tried to concentrate, if not only to avoid stepping on Killian’s toes again, but it was useless.

 

“What?”

 

His voice startled her, and it was only then that she realised that she’d been staring at his face.

 

“Nothing,” she insisted, looking away.

 

“Thinking so seriously about ‘nothing’, are you?” He teased.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

“You were the one who said you were thinking of ‘nothing’, love.”

 

“Fine,” she admitted. “I was just thinking about this. About being here.”

 

Even without looking, Emma could almost see the way his eyebrows had furrowed in concern. “Are you having second thoughts?”  

 

“No,” Emma replied quickly. “It’s fine. It’s more than fine, actually.”

 

“Then what’s the matter?”

 

“Nothing. It’s all _perfect_. Like something out of a fairy tale.”

 

“And that’s bad?”

 

“No. I just…” She took a breath, knowing that her next few words would likely shatter the illusion that the night had brought them. “I’m just wondering what it would be like if this were real.”

 

Sure enough, she felt him stiffen slightly in her arms. “It _is_ real, Swan.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“I’m certain that I don’t.”

 

Emma thought for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I am only here because I was fortunate enough to run into you at a station hundreds of miles from here. A brief moment in time and my life changed.”

 

“That _is_ how life tends to happen,” Killian pointed out.

 

“Yes, but _your_ life would not have changed. Not this much.”

 

“I beg to differ.”

 

“You would still have been invited to this party -”

 

“I wouldn’t have come,” Killian reminded her quickly.

 

“But Will would have forced you anyways,” Emma countered. “And you would have had drinks together, and chatted with Anna, and you would not be _lying_ to your friends.”  

 

Killian seemed to ponder that for a moment. “But who would I have danced with?”

 

Emma almost snorted. “I am certain you would have found a lovely duchess with much better coordination who would have been a much better partner than me.”

 

“And what if they refused?”

“ _I_ refused,” she reminded him.

 

“Yes, and yet, here we are,” Killian pointed out with a chuckle.  

 

“Yes,” Emma agreed, rolling her eyes. “I suppose you are right.”

 

They remained silent for a moment, Emma’s thoughts still swirling.

 

“Though I don’t disagree that there are likely plenty others with far better foot coordination that you,” he teased suddenly in her ear.   

 

Emma might have not-so-innocently stepped on his toes at that moment, eliciting a small yelp and a playful glare from her partner. He pulled an absolutely pitiful look in retaliation of her giggles, and the rest of the dance was completed with even less grace than it had begun.

 

The song came to an end, and the room burst into applause for the musicians. The dancers vacated the floor as new couples took their place for the next song. Weaving their way through the crowd, Emma and Killian made their way to the edge of the room, where there were fewer people and they would be able to regain their breath. A servant carrying a tray of champagne flutes appeared almost immediately, but Emma waved him off. She didn’t need anything to dull the excitement coursing through her blood.

 

She examined Killian’s face as he surveyed the crowd, taking in the joyous atmosphere around them. He looked even more relaxed and carefree than he normally did, which was saying something. Killian never seemed to lose his nerve. Not even now, as he stood in a room full of friends and acquaintances, he didn’t seem remotely bothered by the fact that he was aiding a possible traitor to the people. He believed in her - had done since the beginning, when he’d offered her his protection and support on the train, few questions asked. And he had never asked anything of her in return. It was something she hadn’t experienced in a long, long time.

 

She studied him, trying to remember every detail of his handsome face. The way his dark stubble framed his jawline perfectly, the way his hair always seemed to be just on the right side of unruly, no matter how much he patted and smoothed it. There was a small, thin scar beneath one of his eyes that she had never asked about. Maybe she would never learn the answer.

 

The clock was running, and it wasn’t fair.

 

He caught her staring before she had a chance to look away. “Swan?”

 

“I just…”  She reached across the space between them to take his hands in hers, gripping them firmly. “I wanted to thank you, Killian.”

 

The surprise was evident on his face, his crystal blue eyes searching hers in question. Did he truly not know how much he had already done for her? Were her walls really that high that he couldn’t see?

 

“I have spent so long being just a maid in a palace,” she explained, her voice low for fear of over eager ears. “It has been a while since I have been allowed to be myself, to walk into a room and not have duties to attend to or rules to follow. And now I am on my own, finding a way to a new beginning, and there are parties, and shopping, and friends, and _you.._.”

 

Killian gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I know you might not believe this yet, but this is real. You being here, now, is _real_ . For better or worse, this is where you are now, and you needn’t feel guilty for enjoying yourself. I have seen who you are - the _real_ you - and you deserve to be happy. And I promise you, Emma, I intend to make damn sure that you receive your happy ending.”

 

She felt the pad of his thumb caress her cheekbone, though she couldn’t find the strength to look away from him.

 

“The future is nothing to be afraid of, love.”

 

Emma wanted to be the sort of person that could express things in words. How could she admit to him that each act of kindness he did made her heart jump in her chest? How could she explain that every time he looked at her, his eyes shimmering with affection as though they had known each other for an eternity, that it made her feel a little less alone in the world? She couldn’t.

 

She would have to show him.

 

Deciding quickly before her nerves could get the best of her, she closed the distance between them, her hands coming up to grasp his lapels. She watched his eyes widen, and Emma didn’t miss the dark want that immediately pooled in them. Closing her eyes against the anxieties that told her that this was a cliff, that this was a boundary that could never be recrossed, she kissed him.

 

Immediately, she felt his lips stiffen beneath hers, and for a moment she worried that she had overstepped. The doubts in her mind wailed in protest, her stomach dropping to her feet in an instant. But just as she was about to draw back, a string of apologies already lined up on her tongue, she felt him soften against her as he returned the kiss with equal measure. All of the worries and anxieties she’d held evaporated in an instant, leaving only want and a hunger for more.

 

Warmth filled her body and mind as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, her lips parting against his. Her fingertips dragged across the stubble of his jaw, pulling him toward her. He obeyed, his hand coming up to cup the her head as they let the fire build between them. _By God_ , she thought through the haze. _She should have done this a long time ago_. The world could have collapsed right there and then around them and Emma wouldn’t have cared less.

 

They broke apart, his lips following hers as she swayed gently back on her feet. Her eyes remained closed, her senses already too overwhelmed. So she simply lingered, breathing in the sharp scent of his aftershave as she rested her forehead against his. She could feel the warm blush heating the skin under her fingertips - though how her fingers had made their way to his neck, she couldn’t be sure. She _could_ be sure of the racing pulse that thrummed there, the sharp staccato not unlike her own. She nudged her nose against his as he brushed a strand of hair from her face. She would need more than a minute to get her legs solidly under her again, to draw her mind away from how Killian’s lips has felt crushed against hers, and how she longed for another taste.

 

It was at that moment, of course, that Will made an appearance, clearing his throat loudly.

 

They sprung apart like guilty schoolchildren, Emma’s eyes dropping to the ground as Killian’s back became ramrod straight. It was ridiculous; as far as anyone else in the room was concerned, they were meant to be _engaged_. She couldn’t help but sneak a quick peek at her partner out of the corner of her eye. Sure enough, he looked absolutely wrecked; his hair sticking up at all angles and his cheeks flushed scarlet. She had to hide her smirk as she watched him draw his lips into his mouth, scraping his teeth across his kiss swollen lips in an attempt to remove the traces of red lipstick that remained behind.

 

“A word, please,” Will insisted, gesturing for Killian to follow him off to the side. There was more than a hint of annoyance in his tone. Killian nodded once, though he seemed to have forgotten how to use his feet, and didn’t move an inch. Will rolled his eyes, but began to lead the way as he slipped through the crowd.

 

_Impatient bastard_ , Emma heard Killian whisper under his breath. She giggled, and his expression softened as he turned back toward her. If he was embarrassed or had any hesitations about what had just transpired between them, he didn’t show it. Which was certainly good, given that Emma had absolutely no intention of taking it back. If this was any indication of how the evening was to go, Emma was ready. She grinned back, not even pretending to hide her excitement.

 

“I’ll just be a moment, Swan,” Killian promised, picking up her hand to give it a quick kiss before moving off to find his friend.

 

The buzzing in her veins refused to cease, even as Killian disappeared from view behind one of the far pillars. She needed to sit down. She needed to think.

 

“Emma?”

 

Emma whirled on her heels, surprised to hear her name, and found herself nearly face to face with Anastasia. The hostess raised her eyebrows as she took in Emma’s flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

 

“Are you quite alright, darling?”

 

Emma removed her fingers from where they had been pressed to her bottom lips, yanking her arm down to her side, out of view.

 

“Yes,” Emma half-breathed out, trying to regain her composure. “I apologize. I believe the wine has me feeling… not quite myself.”

 

It was a lame answer, but Anastasia seemed to accept it easily enough.

 

“Good, good,” she continued. “It seems Will has disappeared on me. And I know Killian said that there would be no talk of business tonight, but I was hoping that you might make an exception for this. They seem _very_ eager to speak to you.”

 

“I’m sorry, who is?” Emma asked, not really concerned about the answer. Her mind and heart not yet settled back into her body, and Anastasia’s words seemed to bounce right off of her.

 

“The antiquities dealer, darling,” the woman explained quickly, taking her hand and leading her away. “Please do try to keep up.”

 

Emma followed, her feet moving automatically as she allowed herself to be guided through the crowd. It was only when she found herself placed before a familiar woman, her dark hair and eyes seemingly unchanged despite the many years that has passed since Emma had watched from the window as her and her mother be dragged from the palace grounds, that the cloud began to clear and the fuzzy warmth that had consumed her was replaced with ice. 

 

“Emma, I believe you know Regina Mills.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by the brilliant @Miss-Emma-Swan-Jones
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @Best-Left-Hook-Jones


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